THE   POEMS 

OF 

EUGENE  FIELD 


THE   POEMS 

OF 

EUGENE   FIELD 


COMPLETE  EDITION 


c\\ 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1911 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF  WESTERN   VERSE 

Copyright.  1889,  by  Eugene  Field 
Copyright,  1896,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


SECOND   BOOK   OF  VERSE 
Copyright,  1892,  1896,  by  Julia  Sutherland  Field 


SONGS   AND    OTHER   VERSE 
Copyright,  1896,  by  Julia  Sutherland  Field 


WITH    TRUMPET    AND    DRUM 
Copyright,  1892,  by  Mary  French  Field 


LOVE   SONGS   OF   CHILDHOOD 

Copyright,  1894,  by  Eugene  Field 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 

Copyright,  1904,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


ECHOES   FROM   THE   SABINE   FARM 

Copyright,  1892,  by  A.  C.  McClurg  Co. 
Copyright,  1895,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


SHARPS    AND    FLATS 
Copyright,  1900,  1901,  by  Julia  Sutherland  Field 


LOVE   AFFAIRS   OF  A    BIBLIOMANIAC 

Copyright,  1896,  by  Julia  Sutherland  Field 


THE  HOLY  CROSS  AND  OTHER  TALES 

Copyright,  1893,  by  Eugene  Field 
Copyright,  1896,  by  Julia  Sutherland  Field 


THE   STARS 

Copyright,  1901,  1903,  by  New  Amsterdam  Book  Co. 
Copyright,  1906,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

SECOND   BOOK   OF  TALES 
Copyright,  1896,  by  Julia  Sutherland  Field 


THE  POEMS   OF  EUGENE   FIELD 
Copyright,  1910,  by  Julia  Sutherland  Field 


A 


CONTENTS 

WESTERN  AND  OTHER  VERSE 


PAGE 
,  1 
.  1 

,  4 
,  7 
,  11 
,  13 
,  16 
;  18 
22 

,  23 
24 
25 

,  27 
28 
30 
31 

De  Amicitiis 32 

The  Wanderer 34 

35 
36 
37 
40 
40 


To  Mary  Field  French     . 
Casey's  Table  d'Hote  .     . 
The  Conversazzhyony 
Prof.  Vere  de  Blaw     .     . 
Our  Lady  of  the  Mine     . 
Modjesky  as  Cameel   . 
Marthy's  Younkit       .     . 
Madge:  Ye  Hoyden    .     . 
The  Bibliomaniac's  Prayer 
The  Truth  about  Horace 
Our  Two  Opinions      .     . 

Little  Mack 

To  Robin  Goodfellow 
Apple-Pie  and  Cheese 
The  Little  Peach    .     .     . 
The  Divine  Lullaby    .     . 


Soldier,  Maiden,  and  Flower    . 

Ailsie,  My  Bairn 

Mr.  Dana,  of  the  New  York  Sun 
The  Twenty-third  Psalm  .  . 
The  Bibliomaniac's  Bride  . 

Christmas  Hymn 42 

"Good-by— God  Bless  You! "  .     43 
Chrystmasse  of  Olde  ....     45 
A  Proper  Trewe  Idyll  of  Game- 
lot    45 

In  Flanders 51 

Our  Biggest  Fish 52 


PAGE 

Thirty-nine 53 

Yvytot 55 

To  a  Soubrette 59 

Dedication  to  "Second  Book  of 

Verse" 60 

Father's  Way 62 

To  My  Mother 63 

A  Valentine  to  My  Wife      .     .  64 

Gosling  Stew 65 

,/John  Smith 67 

St.  Martin's  Lane 70 

Dear  Old  London  .     .     .     .     .  71 

The  Clink  of  the  Ice   ....  73 

The  Bells  of  Notre  Dame     .     .  74 

Lover's  Lane,  Saint  Jo    ...  75 

Crumpets  and  Tea      ....  77 

An  Imitation  of  Dr.  Watts  .     .  78 

The  Tea-Gown 79 

Doctors 80 

Barbara 83 

The  Cafe  Molineau      ....  84 

Holly  and  Ivy  ......  85 

The  Boltons,  22 86 

Dibdin's  Ghost 88 

The  Bottle  and  the  Bird      .     .  90 

Carlsbad 92 

Red 93 

At  Cheyenne 94 

The  Pneumogastric  Nerve   .     .  95 

Telka  .  96 


241409 


VI 


CONTENTS 


Plaint  of  the  Missouri  'Coon  in 
the  Berlin  Zoological  Gardens  101 

The  Partridge 103 

Corinthian  Hall 104 

The  Red,  Red  West    .     .     .     .107 
The  Three  Kings  of  Cologne     .  108 

Ipswich 109 

Bill's  Tenor  and  My  Bass    .     .110 
The  "St.  Jo  Gazette"     .     .     .112 

In  Amsterdam 114 

To  the  Passing  Saint       .     .     .116 
The  Fisherman's  Feast    .     .     .117 

The  Onion  Tart 118 

Grandma's  Bombazine    .     .     .  120 

Rare  Roast  Beef 122 

Old  Times,   Old  Friends,   Old 

Love 124 

Mr.  Billings  of  Louisville     .     .  125 

Poet  and  King 125 

Lizzie 127 

Always  Right 128 

Providence  and  the  Dog      .     .  129 

Gettin'  On 131 

The  Schnellest  Zug     .     .     .     .132 

Bethlehem-Town 134 

The  Doings  of  Delsarte   .     .     .135 
The  Singing  in  God's  Acre  .     .137 

The  Dream-Ship 138 

Ballad  of  Women  I  Love     .     .139 

Suppose 140 

Mysterious  Doings      .     .     .     .141 
With    Two    Spoons    for    Two 

Spoons 142 

Mary  Smith 142 

Jessie 144 

To  Emma  Abbott       ....  145 
The  Great  Journalist  in  Spain  .  146 

The  Stoddards 147 

The  Three  Tailors       .     .     .     .150 
The  Jaffa  and  Jerusalem  Rail 
way       151 

The  Wooing  of  the  Southland 
(Alaskan  Ballad)     ....  152 


PAGE 

Star  of  the  East     ...          .153 

Twin  Idols 154 

Ben  Apfelgarten 155 

The  Dreams 156 

In  New  Orleans 158 

My  Playmates 160 

Stoves  and  Sunshine  .     .     .     .161 

A  Drinking  Song 162 

The  Straw  Parlor 163 

The  Discreet  Collector     .     .     .165 

The  Wind 166 

A  Paraphrase 168 

With  Brutus  in  St.  Jo     ...  168 

Pan  Liveth .  171 

Dr.  Sam 172 

Winfreda    (A    Ballad    in    the 

Anglo-Saxon  Tongue)  .  .174 
Lyman,  Frederick,  and  Jim  .  175 
Be  My  Sweetheart  .  .  .  .177 

The  Peter-Bird 178 

Sister's  Cake 183 

Abu  Midjan 184 

Ed 185 

Jennie 186 

Contentment 186 

"Guess" .187 

New- Year's  Eve 188 

The  Broken  Ring 189 

The     Ballad     of    the     Taylor 

Pup 190 

After  Reading  Trollope's  His 
tory  of  Florence      ....  196 
"The  Old  Homestead"   .     .     .199 
The  Convalescent  Gripster  .     .  199 
The  Sleeping  Child      .     .     .     .201 

The  Two  Coffins 202 

Clare  Market 202 

A  Dream  of  Springtime  .     .     .  204 
How  Salty  Win  Out  ....  206 

Boccaccio 207 

Marcus  Varro 209 

My  Garden 210 

One  Day  I  Got  a  Missive     .     .212 


CONTENTS 


Vll 


POEMS   OF    CHILDHOOD 


With  Trumpet  and  Drum    .     .214 
-The  Sugar-Plum  Tree      .     .     .  215 

Krinken 216 

The  Naughty  Doll      ....  217 
Nightfall  in  Dordrecht    .     .     .218 

Intry-Mintry 219 

HPittypat  and  Tippytoe  .  .  .221 
Balow,  My  Bonnie  .  .  .  .222 
The  Hawthorne  Children  .  .  223 
Little  Blue  Pigeon  (Japanese 

Lullaby) 225 

The  Lyttel  Boy 226 

Teeny-Weeny 227 

Nellie        229 

Norse  Lullaby 230 

Grandma's  Prayer 230 

Some  Time 231 

The  Fire-Hangbird's  Nest    .     .  232 
Buttercup,      Poppy,      Forget- 

Me-Not 233 

Wynken,    Blynken,    and    Nod 

(Dutch  Lullaby)      .     .     .     .234 
Gold  and  Love  for  Dearie  (Cor 
nish  Lullaby) 236 

The  Peace  of  Christmas- 
Time  237 

To  a  Little  Brook 238 

Croodlin'  Doo 240 

Little  Mistress  Sans-Merci    .     .  240 

Long  Ago 241 

In  the  Firelight 242 

Cobbler  and  Stork 243 

"Lollyby,  Lolly,  Lollyby"  .     .  245 

A  Valentine 246 

At  the  Door 247 

Hi-Spy 248 

Little  Boy  Blue 248 

Father's  Letter 249 

Jewish  Lullaby 251 


Our  Whippings 252 

The  Armenian  Mother  .  .  .  253 
Heigho,  My  Dearie  (Orkney 

Lullaby) 254 

To  a  Usurper 255 

The  Bell-Flower  Tree      .     .     .  256 

Fairy  and  Child 258 

The  Grandsire 258 

Hushaby,  Sweet  My  Own  (Lul 
laby:  By  the  Sea)  .     .     .     .259 

Child  and  Mother 260 

Mediaeval  Eventide  Song     .     .  261 
Armenian  Lullaby      ....  262 
Christmas  Treasures  ....  263 
Oh,  Little  Child  (Sicilian  Lul 
laby)     264 

Ganderfeather's  Gift  .     .     .     .265 

Bambino  (Corsican  Lullaby)    .  266 

Little  Homer's  Slate  .     .     .     .267 

VThe  Rock-a-By  Lady      .     .     .268 

"Booh!" 269 

Garden  and  Cradle      ....  270 

The  Night  Wind 270 

Kissing  Time 272 

Jest  'fore  Christmas    ....  273 

Beard  and  Baby 274 

^The  Dinkey-Bird 275 

The  Drum 276 

The  Dead  Babe 278 

The  Happy  Household  .  .  .  279 
So,  So,  Rock-a-By  So!  .  .  .  280 
The  Song  of  Luddy-Dud  .  .281 

The  Duel 282 

Good-Children  Street  .  .  .  283 
The  Delectable  Ballad  of  the 

Waller  Lot 284 

The  Stork 289 

The  Bottle-Tree 290 

Googly-Goo 291 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Bench-Legged  Fyce      .     .  292 

Little  Miss  Brag 294 

The  Humming  Top  ....  295 
Lady  Button-Eyes  .  .  .  .296 
The  Ride  to  Bumpville  .  .  .  297 

The  Brook 299 

Picnic-Time 299 

Shufne-Shoon      and      Amber- 
Locks    300 

The  Shut-Eye  Train  .     .     .     .301 

Little-Oh-Dear 303 

The  Fly-Away  Horse  .  .  .303 
Swing  High  and  Swing  Low  .  305 
When  I  Was  a  Boy  ....  306 

At  Play 307 

A  Valentine 308 

Little  All-Aloney 308 

Seein'  Things 310 

The  Cunnin'  Little  Thing  .  .311 
The  Doll's  Wooing  .  .  .  .311 
Inscription  for  My  Little  Son's 

Silver  Plate 313 

Fisherman  Jim's  Kids     .     .     .  313 

"Fiddle-De-Dee" 315 

Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away  .316 

Cradle  Song 316 

The  Rose  and  the  Iceberg  .  .318 
A  Hushaby 319 


PAGE 

Song  of  the  Clouds  ....  319 
The  Princess  Ming  .  .  .  .320 
An  Elfin  Summons  .  .  .  .322 

A  Brook  Song 323 

The  Dismal  Dole  of  the  Doo- 

dledoo 324 

The  Violet's  Love  Story  .  .  .326 
An  Invitation  to  Sleep  .  .  .  327 

Coquetry 327 

The  Cricket's  Song  .  .  .  .328 
The  Fate  of  the  Flimflam  .  .  329 

Contentment 330 

A  Fairy  Lullaby 331 

Ballad  of  the  Jelly-Cake      .     .  332 

Morning  Song .333 

To  a  Sleeping  Baby's  Eyes  .  .  334 
Dream,  Dream,  Dream  .  .  .  334 

A  Lullaby 335 

The  Death  of  Robin  Hood  .     .  336 

Mother  and  Child 337 

Ashes  on  the  Slide      ....  338 

Christmas  Eve .  339 

Telling  the  Bees 340 

Two  Valentines 341 

The  Limitations  of  Youth    .     .  342 

A  Piteous  Plaint 344 

The  Two  Little  Skeezucks  .  .345 
The  Bow-Leg  Boy  ....  348 


ECHOES    FROM   THE    SABINE    FARM 

BY  EUGENE  AND  ROSWELL  MARTIN  FIELD 


To  M.  L.  Gray  (Dedication  to 
"  Echoes  from  the  Sabine 
Farm").  E.  F 350 

An  Invitation  to  Maecenas. 
Odes,  III,  29.  E.  F.  .  .  .  351 

Chloris  Properly  Rebuked. 
Odes,  III,  15.  R.  M.  F.  .  .  352 

To  the  Fountain  of  Bandusia. 
Odes,  III,  13.  E.  F.  .  .  .  353 


To  the  Fountain  of  Bandusia. 

R.  M.  F 353 

The  Preference  Declared.  Odes, 

I,  38.  E.  F 354 

A  Tardy  Apology.  I.  Epode 

XIV.  R.  M.  F 354 

A  Tardy  Apology.  II.  E.  F.  355 
To  the  Ship  of  State.  Odes,  I, 

14.     R.  M.  F.  .  356 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Quitting  Again.     Odes,  III,  26. 

E.  F 357 

Sailor  and  Shade.  Odes,  I,  28. 

E.  F 357 

Let  Us  Have  Peace.  Odes,  I, 

27.     E.  F.      ......  358 

To  Quintus  Dellius.  Odes,  II, 

3.  E.  F 359 

Poking  Fun  at  Xanthias.  Odes, 

II,  4.  R.  M.  F 360 

To  Aristius  Fuscus.  Odes,  I, 

22.  E.  F 361 

To  Albius  Tibullus.  I.  Odes, 

I,  33.     E.  F 362 

To    Albius    Tibullus.     II.     R. 

M.  F 363 

To  Maecenas.  Odes,  I,  1.  R. 

M.  F 363 

To  His  Book.  Epistle  XX. 

R.  M.  F 365 

Fame  vs.  Riches.  Ars  Poetica, 

line  323.  E.  F 366 

The  Lyric  Muse.  Ars  Poetica, 

line  391.  E.  F 366 

A  Counterblast  Against  Garlic. 

Epodelll.  R.  M.  F.  .  .  .  367 
An  Excuse  for  Lalage.  Odes, 

II,  5.     R.  M.  F 368 

An  Appeal  to  Lyce.     Odes,  IV, 

13.  R.  M.  F 368 

A  Roman  Winter-Piece.  I. 

Odes,  I,  9.  E.  F 369 

A  Roman  Winter-Piece,  II. 

R.  M.  F 370 

To  Diana.  Odes,  III,  22. 

R.  M.  F 370 

To  His  Lute.  Odes,  I,  32. 

E.  F 371 

To  Leuconoe.  I.  Odes,  I,  11. 

R.  M.  F 371 

To  Leuconoe.  II.  E.  F.  .  .  372 
To  Ligurinus.  I.  Odes,  IV, 

10.     R.  M.  F.  .  372 


PAGE 

To  Ligurinus.  II.  E.  F.  .  .  373 
The  Happy  Isles.  Epode  XIV, 

line  41.     E.  F 373 

Consistency.  Ars  Poetica.  E.  F.  374 
To  Postumus.  Odes,  II,  11. 

R.  M.  F 375 

To  Mistress  Pyrrha.     I.     Odes, 

I,  5.     E.  F 376 

To   Mistress   Pyrrha.     II.     R. 

M.  F 377 

To  Melpomene.     Odes,  III,  30. 

E.  F 377 

To  Phyllis.     I.     Odes,  IV,  11. 

E.  F 378 

To  Phyllis.  II.  R.  M.  F.  .  .  379 
To  Chloe.  I.  Odes,  I,  23. 

R.  M.  F 380 

To  Chloe.  II.  E.  F.  .  .  .  380 
A  Paraphrase.  E.  F.  .  .  381 
Another  Paraphrase.  E.  F.  381 
A  Third  Paraphrase.  E.  F.  382 
A  Fourth  Paraphrase. 

E.  F 382 

To  Mr^cenas.  Odes,  I,  20.  E.  F.  383 
To  Barine.  Odes,  II,  28. 

R.  M.  F 383 

The  Reconciliation.     I.     Odes, 

III,  9.    E.  F 384 

The     Reconciliation.     II.     R. 

M.  F 385 

The  Roasting  of  Lydia.     Odes, 

I,  25.     R.  M.  F 386 

To  Clycera.     Odes,   I,    19.   R. 

M.  F 387 

To  Lydia.  I.  Odes,  I,  13. 

E.  F 388 

To  Lydia.  II.  R.  M.  F.  .  .  389 
To  Quintius  Hirpinus.  Odes, 

II,  11.     E.  F 389 

Wine,  Women,  and  Song.  Odes, 

I,  18.     E.  F 390 

An  Ode  to  Fortune.     Odes,  I, 
35.     E.  F.  .  391 


CONTENTS 


To  a  Jar  of  Wine.     Odes,  III, 

21.  E.  F 392 

To  Pompeius  Varus.  Odes,  II, 

1.  E.  F 393 

The  Poet's  Metamorphosis. 

Odes,  II,  20.  E.  F.  .  .  .  394 
To  Venus.  Odes,  I,  30.  E.  F.  395 
In  the  Springtime.  I.  Odes, 

I,  4.  E.  F 396 

In  the  Springtime.  II.  R. 

M.  F.  .  396 


To  a  Bully.  Epode  VI.  E.  F.  397 

To  Mother  Venus 398 

To  Lydia.  Odes,  I,  8.  E.  F.  399 
To  Neobule.  Odes,  III,  12. 

R.  M.  F 399 

At  the  Ball  Game.  Odes,  V, 

17.  R.  M.  F 400 

Epilogue.  E.  F 401 

Lydia  Dick.  E.  F 402 

In  Praise  of  Contentment. 

Horace's  Odes,  III,  1.     E.  F.  404 


VARIOUS   TRANSLATIONS 


Uhland's  White  Stag  .  .  .406 
A  Paraphrase  of  Heine.  (Lyric 

Intermezzo) 407 

Old  Spanish  Song 407 

Uhland's  "Chapel"  .  .  .  .408 
A  Heine  Love  Song  ....  409 
Beranger's  "To  My  Old  Coat"  409 
A  Spring  Poem  from  Bion  .  .  410 
Mother  and  Sphinx.  (Egyp 
tian  Folk-Song) 411 

Hymn.     (From  the  German  of 

Martin  Luther) 413 

Two     Idyls     from     Bion    the 

Smyrnean 413 

A  Rhine-Land  Drinking  Song .  415 
Hugo's  "Pool  in  the  Forest"  .  416 
Hugo's  "Child  at  Play"  .  .  .417 


PAGE 

Love  Song — Heine     .     .     .     .417 

To  Cinna 417 

Der  Mann  im  Keller  ....  418 
"Trot,  My  Good  Steed,  Trot!"  419 
Bion's  Song  of  Eros  .  .  .  .421 

Fiducit 422 

The  Lost  Cupid  of  Moschus  .  423 
An  Eclogue  from  Virgil  .  .  .  425 

Catullus  to  Lesbia 428 

Korner's  Battle  Prayer  .     .     .429 
Beranger's  "Ma  Vocation"  .     .  430 
Hugo's  "Flower  to  Butterfly"  431 
Beranger's  "  My  Last  Song  Per 
haps"   432 

Uhland's  "Three  Cavaliers"  .  433 
Heine's  "  Widow  or  Daughter?  "  434 
Beranger's  "  Broken  Fiddle  "  .434 


SHARPS  AND   FLATS 


The  Official  Explanation 
The  Poet's  Return     .     . 
A  Shoshone  Legend    . 
A  Zephyr  from  Zululand 
The  French  Must  Go . 


PAGE  PAGE 

437  A  Battle  in  Yellowstone  Park  .  442 

438  His  Lordship,  the  Chief  Justice  444 

438      A  Hint  for  1884 445 

440  The  Indian  and  the  Trout  .     .  445 

,  441       A  Play  on  Words 446 


CONTENTS 


XI 


How  Flaherty  Kept  the  Bridge  447 
The  Three-Cent  Stamp  .  .  .  448 

Big  Thursday 449 

The  Mystery  of  Pasadene    .     .  450 

A  Nightmare 451 

Bachelor  Hall 452 

Human  Nature 453 

A  Very  Weary  Actor  ....  454 

Gettysburg 455 

Her  Fairy  Feet 455 

The  Remorseful  Cakes  .  .  .  456 
A  Patriot's  Triumph  .  .  .  .457 
"Yours  Fraternally"  .  .  .459 
Song  of  the  All- Wool  Shirt  .  459 
Of  Blessed  Memory  ....  460 
A  Leap- Year  Episode  .  .  .  460 

The  Debutante 462 

The  Modern  Martyr   ....  463 

An  Ohio  Idyl 464 

A  Scherzo 465 

An  Ohio  Ditty 466 

A  Good  Man's  Sorrow  .  .  .  467 
Lament  of  a  Neglected  Boss  .  468 
Romance  of  a  "Cuss- Word"  .  468 

Cold  Consolation 469 

Mr.  Holman's  Farewell  .     .     .  470 

The  April  Fool 471 

The  Old  Sexton 472 

Oglesby  (1884) 473 

The  Political  Maud  .  .  .  .474 
A  Virgilian  Picnic  ....  475 
An  Illinois  War-Song  .  .  .475 
Thomas  A.  Hendricks's  Appeal  476 
The  Explorer's  Wooing  .  .  .  478 
The  Ahkoond  of  Swat  .  .  .478 
A  Plea  for  the  Classics  .  .  .  479. 
The  Secret  of  the  Sphinx  .  .  480 
Fanchon  the  Cricket  ....  482 

November 483 

Parlez-Vous  Fra^ais?  .  .  .  483 
"Gee  Swee  Zamericane"  .  .  484 

Christmas 485 

Chicago  Weather 486 


PAGE 

The  Collector's  Discontent  .  .  487 
A  Leap- Year  Lament ....  487 

111  Requited 488 

Grant 489 

From  the  Same  Canteen    .     .  490 

Little  Miss  Dandy 490 

Spirit  Lake 491 

To  Denman  Thompson  .  .  .  492 
"Puritan" — "Genesta"  .  .  493 
The  Song  of  the  Mugwump  .  495 
Song  for  the  Departed  .  .  .  495 
A  Song  of  the  Christmas  Wind  496 
An  Overworked  Word  .  .  .497 
A  Western  Boy's  Lament  .  .  498 

Humanity 499 

The  White  House  Ballads 

King  Grover  Craves  Pie  .  499 
Sister  Rose's  Suspicions  .  500 
The  Wedding-Day  .  .  .501 
The  Tying  of  the  Tie  .  .  502 
The  Kissing  of  the  Bride  .  503 
The  Cutting  of  the  Cake  .  503 
The  Passing  of  the  Com 
pliment  504 

Three  Days  in  Springtime   .     .  505 

Sag  Harbor 506 

The  5th  of  July 507 

A  Poem  in  Three  Cantos    .     .  508 
In  Praise  of  Truth  and  Sim 
plicity  in  Song 508 

The  Fool 509 

To  the  Ladye  Julia  .  .  .  .510 
A  Ballad  of  Ancient  Oaths  .  .511 
The  Susceptible  Widow  .  .  .512 

Pike's  Peak 513 

Longings 514 

From  the  Rubaiyat  of  Omar 

Khayyam 515 

Mein  Faeder  Bed 516 

Bethlehem  Town 517 

In  Holland .  518 

In  Praise  of  Pie 519 

Uncle  Eph 521 


Xll 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Christmas  Morning  ....  522 
Hymn:  Midnight  Hour  .  .  .  523 
When  Stedman  Comes  to 

Town 524 

The  Straw  Hat 525 

A  War-Song 526 

Extinct  Monsters 527 

Mrs.  Reilly's  Peaches  .  .  .528 
O'Connor's  Iloquint  Spache  .  529 

Doctor  Rabelais 529 

Song 532 


To  Ward  H.  Lamon,  Asleep  on 
His  Library  Floor  .     .     .     .532 

The  Snakes 533 

The  Boy 535 

The  Bugaboo 535 

A  Valentine 536 

The  Tin  Bank 537 

My  Sabine  Farm 539 

The  Vineyard 540 

For  the  Charming  Miss  I.  F.'s 
Album  .  .  540 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES 543 


THE  POEMS 

OF 

EUGENE  FIELD 


WESTERN  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

TO  MARY  FIELD  FRENCH 

A  DYING  mother  gave  to  you 

Her  child  a  many  years  ago; 
How  in  your  gracious  love  he  grew, 

You  know,  dear,  patient  heart,  you  know. 

The  mother's  child  you  fostered  then 
Salutes  you  now  and  bids  you  take 

These  little  children  of  his  pen 

And  love  them  for  the  author's  sake. 

To  you  I  dedicate  this  book, 
And,  as  you  read  it  line  by  line, 

Upon  its  faults  as  kindly  look 

As  you  have  always  looked  on  mine. 

Tardy  the  offering  is  and  weak; — 

Yet  were  I  happy  if  I  knew 
These  children  had  the  power  to  speak 

My  love  and  gratitude  to  you. 


CASEY'S  TABLE  D'HOTE 

OH,  them  days  on  Red  Hoss  Mountain,  when  the  skies  wuz  fair 

'nd  blue, 
When  the  money  flowed  like  likker,  'nd  the  folks  wuz  brave  'nd 

true! 

When  the  nights  wuz  crisp  'nd  balmy,  'nd  the  camp  wuz  all  astir, 
With  the  joints  all  throwed  wide  open  'nd  no  sheriff  to  demur! 
Oh,  them  times  on  Red  Hoss  Mountain  in  the  Rockies  fur  away, — 

1 


WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 


There  's  no  sich  place  nor  times  like  them  as  I  kin  find  to-day! 
What  though  the  camp  hez  busted?     I  seem  to  see  it  still 
A-lyin',  like  it  loved  it,  on  that  big  'nd  warty  hill; 
And  I  feel  a  sort  of  yearnin'  'nd  a  chokin'  in  my  throat 
When  I  think  of  Red  Hoss  Mountain  'nd  of  Casey's  tabble  dote! 

Wai,  yes;   it's  true  I  struck  it  rich,  but  that  don't  cut  a  show 

When  one  is  old  'nd  feeble  'nd  it  's  nigh  his  time  to  go; 

The  money  that  he  's  got  in  bonds  or  carries  to  invest 

Don't  figger  with  a  codger  who  has  lived  a  life  out  West; 

Us  old  chaps  like  to  set  around,  away  from  folks  'nd  noise, 

'Nd  think  about  the  sights  we  seen  and  things  we  done  when  boys; 

The  which  is  why  /  love  to  set  'nd  think  of  them  old  days 

When  all  us  Western  fellers  got  the  Colorado  craze, — 

And  that  is  why  I  love  to  set  around  all  day  'nd  gloat 

On  thoughts  of  Red  Hoss  Mountain  'nd  of  Casey's  tabble  dote. 

This  Casey  wuz  an  Irishman, — you  'd  know  it  by  his  name 

And  by  the  facial  features  appertainin'  to  the  same. 

He  'd  lived  in  many  places  'nd  had  done  a  thousand  things, 

From  the  noble  art  of  actin'  to  the  work  of  dealin'  kings, 

But,  somehow,  hadn't  caught  on;    so,  driftin'  with  the  rest, 

He  drifted  for  a  fortune  to  the  undeveloped  West, 

And  he  come  to  Red  Hoss  Mountain  when  the  little  camp  wuz 

new, 
When  the  money  flowed  like  likker,  'nd  the  folks  wuz  brave  'nd 

true; 

And,  havin'  been  a  stewart  on  a  Mississippi  boat, 
He  opened  up  a  caffy  'nd  he  run  a  tabble  dote. 

The  bar  wuz  long  'nd  rangy,  with  a  mirrer  on  the  shelf, 

'Nd  a  pistol,  so  that  Casey,  when  required,  could  help  himself; 

Down  underneath  there  wuz  a  row  of  bottled  beer  'nd  wine, 

'Nd  a  kag  of  Burbun  whiskey  of  the  run  of  '59; 

Upon  the  walls  wuz  pictures  of  hosses  'nd  of  girls,— 

Not  much  on  dress,  perhaps,  but  strong  on  records  'nd  on  curls! 

The  which  had  been  identified  with  Casey  in  the  past,— 

The  hosses  'nd  the  girls,  I  mean, — and  both  wuz  mighty  fast! 

But  all  these  fine  attractions  wuz  of  precious  little  note 

By  the  side  of  what  wuz  offered  at  Casey's  tabble  dote. 


CASEY'S  TABLE  D'HOTE  3 

There  wuz  half-a-dozen  tables  altogether  in  the  place, 
And  the  tax  you  had  to  pay  upon  your  vittles  wuz  a  case; 
The  boardin'-houses  in  the  camp  protested  't  wuz  a  shame 
To  patronize  a  robber,  which  this  Casey  wuz  the  same! 
They  said  a  case  was  robbery  to  tax  for  ary  meal; 
But  Casey  tended  strictly  to  his  biz,  'nd  let  'em  squeal; 
And  presently  the  boardin'-houses  all  began  to  bust, 
While  Casey  kept  on  sawin'  wood  'nd  lay  in'  in  the  dust; 
And  oncet  a  trav'lin*  editor  from  Denver  City  wrote 
A  piece  back  to  his  paper,  puffin'  Casey's  tabble  dote. 

A  tabble  dote  is  different  from  orderin'  aller  cart: 

In  one  case  you  git  all  there  is,  in  t'  other,  only  part! 

And  Casey's  tabble  dote  began  in  French, — as  all  begin, — 

And  Casey's  ended  with  the  same,  which  is  to  say,  with  "vin"; 

But  in  between  wuz  every  kind  of  reptile,  bird,  'nd  beast, 

The  same  like  you  can  git  in  high-toned  restauraws  down  East; 

'Nd  windin'  up  wuz  cake  or  pie,  with  coffee  demy  tass, 

Or,  sometimes,  floatin'  Ireland  in  a  soothin'  kind  of  sass 

That  left  a  sort  of  pleasant  ticklin'  in  a  feller's  throat, 

'Nd  made  him  hanker  after  more  of  Casey's  tabble  dote. 

The  very  recollection  of  them  puddin's  'nd  them  pies 
Brings  a  yearnin'  to  my  buzzum  'nd  the  water  to  my  eyes; 
'Nd  seems  like  cookin'  nowadays  ain't  what  it  used  to  be 
In  camp  on  Red  Hoss  Mountain  in  that  year  of  '63; 
But,  maybe,  it  is  better,  'nd,  maybe,  I'm  to  blame — 
I'd  like  to  be  a-livin'  in  the  mountains  jest  the  same — 
I'd  like  to  live  that  life  again  when  skies  wuz  fair  'nd  blue, 
When  things  wuz  run  wide  open  'nd  men  wuz  brave  'nd  true; 
When  brawny  arms  the  flinty  ribs  of  Red  Hoss  Mountain  smote 
For  wherewithal  to  pay  the  price  of  Casey's  tabble  dote. 

And  you,  O  cherished  brother,  a-sleepin'  'way  out  West, 
With  Red  Hoss  Mountain  huggin'  you  close  to  its  lovin'  breast, — 
Oh,  do  you  dream  in  your  last  sleep  of  how  we  used  to  do, 
Of  how  we  worked  our  little  claims  together,  me  'nd  you? 
Why,  when  I  saw  you  last  a  smile  wuz  restin'  on  your  face, 
Like  you  wuz  glad  to  sleep  forever  in  that  lonely  place; 


WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 


And  so  you  wuz,  'nd  I  'd  be,  too,  if  I  wuz  sleepin'  so. 
But,  bein'  how  a  brother's  love  ain't  for  the  world  to  know, 
Whenever  I  've  this  heartache  'nd  this  chokin'  in  my  throat, 
I  lay  it  all  to  thinkin'  of  Casey's  tabble  dote. 


THE  CONVERSAZZHYONY 

WHAT  conversazzhyonies  wuz  I  really  did  not  know, 

For  that,  you  must  remember,  wuz  a  powerful  spell  ago; 

The  camp  wuz  new  'nd  noisy,  'nd  only  modrit  sized, 

So  fashionable  sossiety  wuz  hardly  crystallized. 

There  had  n't  been  no  grand  events  to  interest  the  men, 

But  a  lynchin',  or  a  inquest,  or  a  jackpot  now  an'  then. 

The  wimmin-folks  wuz  mighty  scarce,  for  wimmin,  ez  a  rool, 

Don't  go  to  Colorado  much,  excep'  for  teachin'  school, 

An'  bein'  scarce  an'  chipper  and  pretty  (like  as  not), 

The  bachelors  perpose,  'nd  air  acepted  on  the  spot. 

Now  Sorry  Tom  wuz  owner  uv  the  Gosh-all-Hemlock  mine, 

The  wich  allowed  his  better  haff  to  dress  all-fired  fine; 

For  Sorry  Tom  wuz  mighty  proud  uv  her,  an'  she  uv  him, 

Though  she  wuz  short  an'  tacky,  an'  he  wuz  tall  an'  slim, 

An'  she  wuz  edjicated,  an'  Sorry  Tom  wuz  not, 

Yet,  for  her  sake,  he  'd  whack  up  every  cussid  cent  he  'd  gotl 

Waal,  jest  by  way  uv  celebratin'  matrimonial  joys, 

She  thought  she  'd  give  a  conversazzhyony  to  the  boys, — 

A  peert  an'  likely  lady,  'nd  ez  full  uv  'cute  idees 

'Nd  uv  etiquettish  notions  ez  a  fyste  is  full  uv  fleas. 

Three-Fingered  Hoover  kind  uv  kicked,  an'  said  they  might  be 

durned 

So  far  ez  any  conversazzhyony  was  concerned; 
He  'd  come  to  Red  Hoss  Mountain  to  tunnel  for  the  ore, 
An*  not  to  go  to  parties, — quite  another  kind  uv  bore! 
But,  bein'  he  wuz  candidate  for  marshal  uv  the  camp, 
I  rayther  had  the  upper  holts  in  arguin'  with  the  scamp; 


THE   CONVERSAZZHYONY  5 

Sez  I,  "  Three-Fingered  Hoover,  can't  ye  see  it  is  yer  game 
To  go  for  all  the  votes  ye  kin  an'  collar  uv  the  same?" 
The  wich  perceivin',  Hoover  sez,  "  Waal,  ef  I  must,  I  must; 
So  I'll  frequent  that  conversazzhyony,  ef  I  bust!" 

Three-Fingered  Hoover  wuz  a  trump!    Ez  fine  a  man  wuz  he 

Ez  ever  caused  a  inquest  or  blossomed  on  a  tree ! — 

A  big,  broad  man,  whose  face  bespoke  a  honest  heart  within, — 

With  a  bunch  uv  yaller  whiskers  appertainin'  to  his  chin, 

'Nd  a  fierce  mustache  turnt  up  so  fur  that  both  his  ears  wuz  hid, 

Like  the  picture  that  you  always  see  in  the  "Life  uv  Cap'n  Kidd." 

His  hair  wuz  long  an'  wavy  an'  fine  as  Southdown  fleece, — 

Oh,  it  shone  an'  smelt  like  Eden  when  he  slicked  it  down  with 

grease! 

I  '11  bet  there  wuz  n't  anywhere  a  man,  all  round,  ez  fine 
Ez  wuz  Three-Fingered  Hoover  in  the  spring  uv  '69! 

The  conversazzhyony  wuz  a  notable  affair, 

The  bong  tong  deckolett  'nd  en  regaly  bein'  there; 

The  ranch  where  Sorry  Tom  hung  out  wuz  fitted  up  immense, — 

The  Denver  papers  called  it  a  "palashal  residence." 

There  wuz  mountain  pines  an'  fern  an'  flowers  a-hangin'  on  the 

walls, 

An'  cheers  an'  hoss-hair  sofies  wuz  a-settin'  in  the  halls; 
An'  there  wuz  heaps  uv  pictures  uv  folks  that  lived  down  East, 
Sech  ez  poets  an'  perfessers,  an'  last,  but  not  the  least, 
Wuz  a  chromo  uv  old  Fremont, — we  liked  that  best,  you  bet, 
For  there  's  lots  uv  us  old  miners  that  is  votin'  for  him  yet! 

When  Sorry  Tom  received  the  gang  perlitely  at  the  door, 

He  said  that  keerds  would  be  allowed  upon  the  second  floor; 

And  then  he  asked  us  would  we  like  a  drop  uv  ody  vee. 

Connivin'  at  his  meanin',  we  responded  promptly,  "Wee." 

A  conversazzhyony  is  a  thing  where  people  speak 

The  langwidge  in  the  wich  they  air  partickulerly  weak: 

"I  see,"  sez  Sorry  Tom,  "you  grasp  what  that  'ere  lingo  means.'' 

"You  bet  yer  boots,"  sez  Hoover;   "I've  lived  at  Noo  Orleens, 

An',  though  I  ain't  no  Frenchie,  nor  kin  unto  the  same, 

I  kin  parly  voo,  an'  git  there,  too,  like  Eli,  toot  lee  mane!" 


6  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

As  speakin'  French  wuz  not  my  forte, — not  even  oovry  poo, — 

I  stuck  to  keerds  ez  played  by  them  ez  did  not  parly  voo, 

An'  bein'  how  that  poker  wuz  my  most  perficient  game, 

I  ponyed  up  for  20  blues  an'  set  into  the  same. 

Three-Fingered  Hoover  stayed  behind  an'  parly- vood  so  well 

That  all  the  kramy  delly  krame  allowed  he  wuz  the  belle. 

The  other  candidate  for  marshal  did  n't  have  a  show; 

For,  while  Three-Fingered  Hoover  parlyed,  ez  they  said,  tray  bow, 

Bill  Goslin  did  n't  know  enough  uv  French  to  git  along, 

'Nd  I  reckon  that  he  had  what  folks  might  call  a  movy  tong. 

From  Denver  they  had  freighted  up  a  real  pianny-fort 

Uv  the  warty-leg  and  pearl-around-the-keys-an'-kivver  sort, 

An',  later  in  the  evenin',  Perfesser  Vere  de  Blaw 

Performed  on  that  pianny,  with  considerable  eclaw, 

Sech  high-toned  opry  airs  ez  one  is  apt  to  hear,  you  know, 

When  he  rounds  up  down  to  Denver  at  a  Emmy  Abbitt  show; 

An'  Barber  Jim  (a  talented  but  ornery  galoot) 

Discoursed  a  obligatter,  conny  mory,  on  the  floot, 

Till  we,  ez  sot  up-stairs  indulgin'  in  a  quiet  game, 

Conveyed  to  Barber  Jim  our  wish  to  compromise  the  same. 

The  maynoo  that  wuz  spread  that  night  wuz  mighty  hard  to  beat, — 
Though  somewhat  awkward  to  pernounce,  it  was  not  so  to  eat: 
There  wuz  puddin's,  pies,  an'  sandwidges,  an'  forty  kinds  uv  sass, 
An'  floatin'  Ire  lands,  custards,  tarts,  an'  patty  dee  foy  grass; 
An'  millions  uv  cove  oysters  wuz  a-settin'  round  in  pans, 
'Nd  other  native  fruits  an'  things  that  grow  out  West  in  cans. 
But  I  wuz  all  kufflummuxed  when  Hoover  said  he  'd  choose 
"Oon  peety  morso,  see  voo  play,  de  la  cette  Charlotte  Rooze;" 
I  'd  knowed  Three-Fingered  Hoover  for  fifteen  years  or  more, 
'Nd  I  'd  never  heern  him  speak  so  light  uv  wimmin  folks  before ! 

Bill  Goslin  heern  him  say  it,  'nd  uv  course  he  spread  the  news 

Uv  how  Three-Fingered  Hoover  had  insulted  Charlotte  Rooze 

At  the  conversazzhyony  down  at  Sorry  Tom's  that  night, 

An'  when  they  asked  me,  I  allowed  that  Bill  for  once  wuz  right; 

Although  it  broke  my  heart  to  see  my  friend  go  up  the  fluke, 

We  all  opined  his  treatment  uv  the  girl  deserved  rebuke. 

It  war  n't  no  use  for  Sorry  Tom  to  nail  it  for  a  lie, — 


PROF.    VERB    DE    BLAW  7 

When  it  come  to  sassin'  wimmin,  there  wuz  blood  in  every  eye; 
The  boom  for  Charlotte  Rooze  swep'  on  an'  took  the  polls  by  storm, 
An'  so  Three-Fingered  Hoover  fell  a  martyr  to  reform! 

Three-Fingered  Hoover  said  it  was  a  terrible  mistake, 

An'  when  the  votes  wuz  in,  he  cried  ez  if  his  heart  would  break. 

We  never  knew  who  Charlotte  wuz,  but  Goslin's  brother  Dick 

Allowed  she  wuz  the  teacher  from  the  camp  on  Roarin'  Crick, 

That  had  come  to  pass  some  foreign  tongue  with  them  uv  our  alite 

Ez  wuz  at  the  high-toned  party  down  at  Sorry  Tom's  that  night. 

We  let  it  drop — this  matter  uv  the  lady — there  an'  then, 

An'  we  never  heerd,  nor  wanted  to,  of  Charlotte  Rooze  again, 

An'  the  Colorado  wimmin-folks,  ^z  like  ez  not,  don't  know 

How  we  vindicated  all  their  sex  a  twenty  year  ago. 

For  in  these  wondrous  twenty  years  has  come  a  mighty  change, 

An'  most  of  them  old  pioneers  have  gone  acrost  the  range, 

Way  out  into  the  silver  land  beyond  the  peaks  uv  snow, — 

The  land  uv  rest  an'  sunshine,  where  all  good  miners  go. 

I  reckon  they  love  to  look,  from  out  the  silver  haze, 

Upon  that  God's  own  country  where  they  spent  sech  happy  days; 

Upon  the  noble  cities  that  have  risen  since  they  went; 

Upon  the  camps  an'  ranches  that  are  prosperous  an'  content; 

An'  best  uv  all,  upon  those  hills  that  reach  into  the  air, 

Ez  if  to  clasp  the  loved  ones  that  are  waitin'  over  there. 


PROF.  VERE  DE  BLAW 

ACHIEVIN'  sech  distinction  with  his  moddel  tabble  dote 

Ez  to  make  his  Red  Hoss  Mountain  restauraw  a  place  uv  note, 

Our  old  friend  Casey  innovated  somewhat  round  the  place, 

In  hopes  he  would  ameliorate  the  sufferin's  uv  the  race; 

'Nd  uv  the  many  features  Casey  managed  to  import 

The  most  important  wuz  a  Steenway  gran'  pianny-fort, 

An'  bein'  there  wuz  nobody  could  play  upon  the  same, 

He  telegraffed  to  Denver,  'nd  a  real  perfesser  came, — 

The  last  an'  crownin'  glory  uv  the  Casey  restauraw 

Wuz  that  tenderfoot  musicianer,  Perfesser  Vere  de  Blaw! 


8  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

His  hair  wuz  long  an'  dishybill,  an'  he  had  a  yaller  skin, 

An'  the  absence  uv  a  collar  made  his  neck  look  powerful  thin: 

A  sorry  man  he  wuz  to  see,  ez  mebby  you  'd  surmise, 

But  the  fire  uv  inspiration  wuz  a-blazin'  in  his  eyes! 

His  name  wuz  Blanc,  wich  same  is  Blaw  (for  that 's  what  Casey 

said, 

An'  Casey  passed  the  French  ez  well  ez  any  Frenchie  bred) ; 
But  no  one  ever  reckoned  that  it  really  wuz  his  name, 
An'  no  one  ever  asked  him  how  or  why  or  whence  he  came, — 
Your  ancient  history  is  a  thing  the  Coloradan  hates, 
An'  no  one  asks  another  what  his  name  wuz  in  the  States! 

At  evenin',  when  the  work  wuz  done,  an'  the  miners  rounded  up 

At  Casey's,  to  indulge  in  keerds  or  linger  with  the  cup, 

Or  dally  with  the  tabble  dote  in  all  its  native  glory, 

Perfesser  Vere  de  Blaw  discoursed  his  music  repertory 

Upon  the  Steenway  gran'  pianny-fort,  the  wich  wuz  sot 

In  the  hallway  near  the  kitchen  (a  warm  but  quiet  spot), 

An'  when  De  Blaw's  environments  induced  the  proper  pride, — 

Wich  gen' rally  wuz  whiskey  straight,  with  seltzer  on  the  side, — 

He  throwed  his  soulful  bein'  into  opry  airs  'nd  things 

Wich  bounded  to  the  ceilin'  like  he  'd  mesmerized  the  strings. 

Oh,  you  that  live  in  cities  where  the  gran'  piannies  grow, 

An'  primy  donnies  round  up,  it 's  little  that  you  know 

Uv  the  hungerin'  an'  the  yearnin'  wich  us  miners  an'  the  rest 

Feel  for  the  songs  we  used  to  hear  before  we  moved  out  West. 

Yes,  memory  is  a  pleasant  thing,  but  it  weakens  mighty  quick; 

It  kind  uv  dries  an'  withers,  like  the  windin'  mountain  crick, 

That,  beautiful,  an'  singin'  songs,  goes  dancin'  to  the  plains, 

So  long  ez  it  is  fed  by  snows  an'  watered  by  the  rains; 

But,  uv  that  grace  uv  lovin'  rains  'nd  mountain  snows  bereft, 

Its  breachin'  rocks,  like  dummy  ghosts,  is  all  its  memory  left. 

The  toons  wich  the  perfesser  would  perform  with  sech  eclaw 

Would  melt  the  toughest  mountain  gentleman  I  ever  saw, — 

Sech  touchin'  opry  music  ez  the  Trovytory  sort, 

The  sollum  "Mizer  Reery,"  an'  the  thrillin'  "Keely  Mort"; 

Or,  sometimes,  from  "Lee  Grond  Dooshess"  a  trifle  he  would  play, 

Or  morsoze  from  a'  opry  boof,  to  drive  dull  care  away; 


PROF.    VERB   BE    BLAW  9 

Or,  feelin'  kind  uv  serious,  he  'd  discourse  somewhat  in.  C, — 
The  wich  he  called  a'  opus  (whatever  that  may  be); 
But  the  toons  that  fetched  the  likker  from  the  critics  in  the  crowd 
Wuz  not  the  high-toned  ones,  Perfesser  Vere  de  Blaw  allowed. 

'T  wuz  " Dearest  May,"   an'    "Bonnie   Doon,"   an'   the   ballard 

uv  "Ben  Bolt," 

Ez  wuz  regarded  by  all  odds  ez  Vere  de  Blaw's  best  holt; 
Then  there  wuz  "Darlin'  Nellie  Gray,"  an'  "Settin'  on  the  Stile," 
An'  "Seein'  Nellie  Home,"  an'  "Nancy  Lee,"  'nd  "Annie  Lisle," 
An'  "Silver  Threads  among  the  Gold,"  an'  "The  Gal  that  Winked 

at  Me," 

An'  "Gentle  Annie,"  "Nancy  Till,"  an'  "The  Cot  beside  the  Sea." 
Your  opry  airs  is  good  enough  for  them  ez  likes  to  pay 
Their  money  for  the  truck  ez  can't  be  got  no  other  way; 
But  opry  to  a  miner  is  a  thin  an'  holler  thing, — 
The  music  that  he  pines  for  is  the  songs  he  used  to  sing. 

One  evenin'  down  at  Casey's  De  Blaw  wuz  at  his  best, 
With  four-fingers  uv  old  Wilier-run  concealed  beneath  his  vest; 
The  boys  wuz  settin'  all  around,  discussin'  folks  an'  things, 
'Nd  I  had  drawed  the  necessary  keerds  to  fill  on  kings; 
Three-Fingered  Hoover  kind  uv  leaned  acrost  the  bar  to  say 
If  Casey  'd  liquidate  right  off,  he  'd  liquidate  next  day; 
A  sperrit  uv  contentment  wuz  a-broodin'  all  around 
(Onlike  the  other  sperrits  wich  in  restauraws  abound), 
When,  suddenly,  we  heerd  from  yonder  kitchen-entry  rise 
A  toon  each  ornery  galoot  appeared  to  recognize. 

Perfesser  Vere  de  Blaw  for  once  eschewed  his  opry  ways, 

An'  the  remnants  uv  his  mind  went  back  to  earlier,  happier  days, 

An'  grappled  like  an'  wrassled  with  a'  old  familiar  air 

The  wich  we  all  uv  us  had  heern,  ez  you  have,  everywhere! 

Stock  still  we  stopped, — some  in  their  talk  uv  politics  an'  things, 

I  in  my  unobtrusive  attempt  to  fill  on  kings, 

'Nd  Hoover  leanin'  on  the  bar,  an'  Casey  at  the  till, — 

We  all  stopped  short  an'  held  our  breaths  (ez  a  feller  sometimes 

will), 

An'  sot  there  more  like  bumps  on  logs  than  healthy,  husky  men, 
Ez  the  memories  uv  that  old,  old  toon  come  sneakin'  back  again. 


10  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

You  've  guessed  it  ?     No,  you  hav  n't;  for  it  wuzn  't  that  there  song 
Uv  the  home  we  'd  been  away  from  an'  had  hankered  for  so 

long, — 
No,  sir;    it  wuz  n't  "Home,  Sweet  Home,"  though  it 's  always 

heard  around 
Sech  neighborhoods  in  wich  the  home  that  is  " sweet  home"  is 

found. 

And,  ez  for  me,  I  seemed  to  see  the  past  come  back  again, 
And  hear  the  deep-drawed  sigh  my  sister  Lucy  uttered  when 
Her  mother  asked  her  if  she  'd  practised  her  two  hours  that  day, 
Wich,  if  she  had  n't  she  must  go  an'  do  it  right  away! 
The  homestead  in  the  States  'nd  all  its  memories  seemed  to  come 
A-floatin'  round  about  me  with  that  magic  lumty-tum. 

And  then  uprose  a  stranger  wich  had  struck  the  camp  that  night; 

His  eyes  wuz  sot  an'  fireless,  'nd  his  face  wuz  spookish  white, 

'Nd  he  sez:    "Oh,  how  I  suffer  there  is  nobody  kin  say, 

Onless,  like  me,  he  's  wrenched  himself  from  home  an'  friends  away 

To  seek  surcease  from  sorrer  in  a  fur,  seclooded  spot, 

Only  to  find — alars,  too  late! — the  wich  surcease  is  not! 

Only  to  find  that  there  air  things  that,  somehow,  seem  to  live 

For  nothin'  in  the  world  but  jest  the  misery  they  give! 

I  've  travelled  eighteen  hundred  miles,  but  that  toon  has  got  here 

first; 
I  'm  done, — I  'm  blowed, — I  welcome  death,  an'  bid  it  do  its 

worst!" 

Then,  like  a  man  whose  mind  wuz  sot  on  yieldin'  to  his  fate, 
He  waltzed  up  to  the  counter  an'  demanded  whiskey  straight, 
Wich  havin'  got  outside  uv, — both  the  likker  and  the  door,— 
We  never  seen  that  stranger  in  the  bloom  uv  health  no  more! 
But  some  months  later,  what  the  birds  had  left  uv  him  wuz  found 
Associated  with  a  tree,  some  distance  from  the  ground; 
And  Husky  Sam,  the  coroner,  that  set  upon  him,  said 
That  two  things  wuz  apparent,  namely:   first,  deceast  wuz  dead; 
And,  second,  previously  had  got  involved  beyond  all  hope 
In  a  knotty  complication  with  a  yard  or  two  uv  rope! 


OUR   LADY   OF   THE   MINE  11 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  MINE 

THE  Blue  Horizon  wuz  a  mine  us  fellers  all  thought  well  uv, 
And  there  befell  the  episode  I  now  perpose  to  tell  uv; 
'T  wuz  in  the  year  uv  sixty-nine, — somewhere  along  in  summer, — 
There  hove  in  sight  one  afternoon  a  new  and  curious  comer; 
His  name  wuz  Silas  Pettibone, — a'  artist  by  perfession, — 
With  a  kit  of  tools  and  a  big  mustache  and  a  pipe  in  his  possession. 
He  told  us,  by  our  leave,  he  'd  kind  uv  like  to  make  some  sketches 
Uv  the  snowy  peaks,  'nd  the  foamin'  crick,  'nd  the  distant  mountain 

stretches; 
"  You  're  welkim,  sir,"  sez  we,  although  this  scenery  dodge  seemed 

to  us 
A  waste  uv  time  where  scenery  wuz  already  sooper-j#oo-us. 

All  through  the  summer  Pettibone  kep'  busy  at  his  sketching — 
At  daybreak  off  for  Eagle  Pass,  and  home  at  nightfall,  fetchin' 
That  everlastin'  book  uv  his  with  spider-lines  all  through  it; 
Three-Fingered  Hoover  used  to  say  there  war  n't  no  meanin'  to  it. 
"Gol  durn  a  man,"  sez  he  to  him,  "  whose  shif  less  hand  is  sot  at 
A-drawin'  hills  that's  full  uv  quartz  that's  pinin'  to  be  got  at!" 
"Go  on,"  sez  Pettibone,  "go  on,  if  joshin'  gratifies  ye; 
But  one  uv  these  fine  times  I  '11  show  ye  sumthin'  will  surprise  ye!" 
The  which  remark  led  us  to  think — although  he  did  n't  say  it — 
That  Pettibone  wuz  owin'  us  a  gredge  'nd  meant  to  pay  it. 

One  evenin'  as  we  sat  around  the  Restauraw  de  Casey, 
A-singin'  songs  'nd  tellin'  yarns  the  which  wuz  sumwhat  racy, 
In  come  that  feller  Pettibone,  'nd  sez,  "With  your  permission, 
I  'd  like  to  put  a  picture  I  have  made  on  exhibition." 
He  sot  the  picture  on  the  bar  'nd  drew  aside  its  curtain, 
Sayin',  "I  reckon  you  '11  allow  as  how  that  's  art,  fr  certain!" 
And  then  we  looked,  with  jaws  agape,  but  nary  word  wuz  spoken, 
And  fr  a  likely  spell  the  charm  uv  silence  wuz  unbroken — 
Till  presently,  as  in  a  dream,  remarked  Three-Fingered  Hoover: 
"Onless  I  am  mistaken,  this  is  Pettibone's  shef  doover!" 

It  wuz  a  face — a  human  face — a  woman's,  fair  'nd  tender — 
Sot  gracefully  upon  a  neck  white  as  a  swan's,  and  slender; 


12  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

The  hair  wuz  kind  uv  sunny,  'nd  the  eyes  wuz  sort  uv  dreamy, 
The  mouth  wuz  half  a-smilin',  'nd  the  cheeks  wuz  soft  'nd  creamy; 
It  seemed  like  she  wuz  lookin'  off  into  the  west  out  yonder, 
And  seemed  like,  while  she  looked,  we  saw  her  eyes  grow  softer, 

fonder, — 

Like,  lookin'  off  into  the  west,  where  mountain  mists  wuz  fallin', 
She  saw  the  face  she  longed  to  see  and  heerd  his  voice  a-callin'; 
"Hooray!"  we  cried, — "a  woman  in  the  camp  uv  Blue  Horizon! 
Step  right  up,  Colonel  Pettibone,  'nd  nominate  your  pizen!" 

A  curious  situation, — one  deservin'  uv  your  pity, — 

No  human,  livin',  female  thing  this  side  of  Denver  City! 

But  jest  a  lot  uv  husky  men  that  lived  on  sand  'nd  bitters, — 

Do  you  wonder  that  that  woman's   face   consoled   the   lonesome 

critters  ? 

And  not  a  one  but  what  it  served  in  some  way  to  remind  him 
Of  a  mother  or  a  sister  or  a  sweetheart  left  behind  him; 
And  some  looked  back  on  happier  days,  and  saw  the  old-time  faces 
And  heerd  the  dear  familiar  sounds  in  old  familiar  places, — 
A  gracious  touch  of  home.     "Look  here,"  sez  Hoover,  "ever'body 
Quit  thinkin'  'nd  perceed  at  oncet  to  name  his  favorite  toddy!" 

It  wuz  n't  long  afore  the  news  had  spread  the  country  over, 

And  miners  come  a-flockin'  in  like  honey-bees  to  clover; 

It  kind  uv  did  'em  good,  they  said,  to  feast  their  hungry  eyes  on 

That  picture  uv  Our  Lady  in  the  camp  uv  Blue  Horizon. 

But  one  mean  cuss  from  Nigger  Crick  passed  criticisms  on  'er, — 

Leastwise  we  overheerd  him  call  her  Pettibone's  madonner, 

The  wrhich  we  did  not  take  to  be  respectful  to  a  lady, 

So  we  hung  him  in  a  quiet  spot  that  wuz  cool  'nd  dry  'nd  shady; 

Which  same  might  not  have  been  good  law,  but  it  wuz  the  right 

manoeuvre 
To  give  the  critics  due  respect  for  Pettibone's  shef  doover. 

Gone  is  the  camp, — yes,  years  ago  the  Blue  Horizon  busted, 
And  every  mother's  son  uv  us  got  up  one  day  'nd  dusted, 
While  Pettibone  perceeded  East  with  wealth  in  his  possession, 
And  went  to  Yurrup,  as  I  heered,  to  study  his  perfession; 
So,  like  as  not,  you'll  find  him  now  a-paintin'  heads  'nd  faces 
At  Venus,  Billy  Florence,  and  the  like  I-talyun  places. 


MODJESKY   AS   CAMEEL  13 

But  no  sech  face  he  '11  paint  again  as  at  old  Blue  Horizon, 
For  I  '11  allow  no  sweeter  face  no  human  soul  sot  eyes  on; 
And  when  the  critics  talk  so  grand  uv  Paris  'nd  the  Loover, 
I  say,  "Oh,  but  you  orter  seen  the  Pettibone  shef  dooverl" 


MODJESKY  AS  CAMEEL 

AFORE  we  went  to  Denver  we  had  heerd  the  Tabor  Grand, 

Allowed  by  critics  ez  the  finest  opry  in  the  land; 

And,  roundin'  up  at  Denver  in  the  fall  of  '81, 

Well  heeled  in  p'int  uv  looker  'nd  a-pinin'  for  some  fun, 

We  told  Bill  Bush  that  we  wuz  fixed  quite  comf'table  for  wealth, 

And  had  n't  struck  that  altitood  entirely  for  our  health. 

You  see  we  knew  Bill  Bush  at  Central  City  years  ago; 

(An'  a  whiter  man  than  that  same  Bill  you  could  not  wish  to 

know!) 

Bill  run  the  Grand  for  Tabor,  'nd  he  gin  us  two  a  deal 
Ez  how  we  really  otter  see  Modjesky  ez  Cameel. 

Three-Fingered  Hoover  stated  that  he'd  great  deal  ruther  go 

To  call  on  Charley  Simpson  than  frequent  a'  opry  show. 

"The  queen  uv  tragedy,"  sez  he,  "is  wot  I  've  never  seen, 

And  I  reckon  there  is  more  for  me  in  some  other  kind  uv  queen." 

"Git  out!"   sez  Bill,  disgusted-like,  "and  can't  you  never  find 

A  pleasure  in  the  things  uv  life  wich  ellervates  the  mind  ? 

You  've  set  around  in  Casey's  restauraw  a  year  or  more, 

An'  heerd  ol'  Vere  de  Blaw  perform  shef  doovers  by  the  score, 

Only  to  come  down  here  among  us  long  an'  say  you  feel 

You  'd  ruther  take  in  faro  than  a'  opry  like  ' Cameel'!" 

But  it  seems  it  wur  n't  no  opry,  but  a  sort  uv  foreign  play, 
With  a  heap  uv  talk  an'  dressin'  that  wuz  both  dekollyta,y. 
A  young  chap  sparks  a  gal,  who  's  caught  a  dook  that 's  old  an' 

wealthy, — 

She  has  a  cold  'nd  faintin'  fits,  and  is  gin'rally  onhealthy. 
She  says  she  has  a  record;   but  the  young  chap  does  n't  mind, 
And  it  looks  ez  if  the  feller  wuz  a  proper  likely  kind 


14  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Until  his  old  man  sneaks  around  'nd  makes  a  dirty  break, 
And  the  young  one  plays  the  sucker  'nd  gives  the  girl  the  shake. 
"Armo!  Armo!"   she  hollers;  but  he  flings  her  on  the  floor, 
And  says  he  ain'ter  goin'  to  have  no  truck  with  her  no  more. 

At  that  Three-Fingered  Hoover  says,  "1 11  chip  into  this  game, 

And  see  if  Red  Hoss  Mountain  cannot  reconstruct  the  same. 

I  won't  set  by  an'  see  the  feelin's  uv  a  lady  hurt, — 

Gol  durn  a  critter,  anyhow,  that  does  a  woman  dirt!" 

He  riz  up  like  a  giant  in  that  little  painted  pen, 

And  stepped  upon  the  platform  with  the  women-folks  'nd  men; 

Across  the  trough  of  gaslights  he  bounded  like  a  deer, 

An'  grabbed  Armo  an'  hove  him  through  the  landscape  in  the 

rear; 

And  then  we  seen  him  shed  his  hat  an'  reverently  kneel, 
An'  put  his  strong  arms  tenderly  around  the  gal  Cameel. 

A-standin'  in  his  stockin'  feet,  his  height  wuz  siz  foot  three, 
And  a  huskier  man  than  Hoover  wuz  you  could  not  hope  to  see. 
He  downed  Lafe  Dawson  wrasslin' ;   and  one  night  I  seen  him  lick 
Three  Cornish  miners  that  come  into  camp  from  Roarin'  Crick 
To  clean  out  Casey's  restauraw  an'  do  the  town,  they  said. 
He  could  whip  his  weight  in  wildcats,  an'  paint  whole  townships  red, 
But  good  to  helpless  folks  and  weak, — a  brave  and  manly  heart 
A  cyclone  could  n't  phase,  but  any  child  could  rend  apart; 
Jest   like   the   mountain  pine,  wich  dares   the  storm  that  howls 

along, 
But  rocks  the  winds  uv  summer-time,  an'  sings  a  soothin'  song. 

"Cameel,"  sez  he,  "your  record  is  ag'in  you,  I  '11    allow, 

But,  bein'  you  're  a  woman,  you  '11  git  justice  anyhow; 

So,  if  you  say  you're  sorry,  and  intend  to  travel  straight, — 

Why,  never  mind  that  other  chap  with  which  you  meant  to  mate,— 

I'll  marry  you  myself,  and  take  you  back  to-morrow  night 

To  the  camp  on  Red  Hoss  Mountain,  where  the  boys  '11  treat  you 

white, 

Where  Casey  runs  a  tabble  dote,  and  folks  are  brave  'nd  true, 
Where  there  ain't  no  ancient  history  to  bother  me  or  you, 
Where  there  ain't  no  law  but  honesty,  no  evidence  but  facts, 
Where  between  the  verdick  and  the  rope  there  ain't  no  outer  acts." 


MODJESKY   AS   CAMEEL  15 

I  wuz  mighty  proud  of  Hoover;   but  the  folks  began  to  shout 
That  the  feller  was  intruding  and  would  some  one  put  him  out. 
"Well,  no;  I  reckon  not,"  says  I,  or  words  to  that  effect, 
Ez  I  perduced  a'  argument  I  thought  they  might  respect, — 
A  long  an'  harnsome  weepon  I  'd  pre-empted  when  I  come 
Out  West  (its  cartridges  wuz  big  an'  juicy  ez  a  plum), 
Wich,  when  persented  properly,  wuz  very  apt  to  sway 
The  popular  opinion  in  a  most  persuasive  way. 
"Well,  no;  I  reckon  not,"  says  I;   but  I  did  n't  say  no  more, 
Observin'  that  there  wuz  a  gin'ral  movement  towards  the  door. 

First  Dr.  Lemen  he  allowed  that  he  had  got  to  go 

And  see  a  patient  he  jest  heerd  wuz  lyin'  very  low; 

An'  Charlie  Toll  riz  up  an'  said  he  guessed  he  'd  jine  the  Dock, 

An'  go  to  see  a  client  wich  wuz  waitin'  round  the  block; 

John  Arkins  reckollected  he  had  interviews  to  write, 

And  previous  engagements  hurried  Cooper  from  our  sight; 

Cal  Cole  went  out  to  buy  a  boss,  Fred  Skiff  and  Belford  too; 

And  Stapleton  remembered  he  had  heaps  uv  work  to  do. 

Somehow  or  other  every  one  wuz  full  uv  business  then; 

Leastwise,  they  all  vamoosed,  and  did  n't  bother  us  again. 

I  reckollect  that  Willard  Morse  an'  Bush  come  runnin'  in, 
A-hollerin',  "Oh,  wot  two  idiots  you  durned  fools  have  been!" 
I  reckollect  that  they  allowed  we  'd  made  a  big  mistake, — 
They  otter  knowed  us  tenderfoots  wuz  sure  to  make  a  break! 
An',  while  Modjesky  stated  we  wuz  somewhat  off  our  base, 
I  half  opined  she  liked  it,  by  the  look  upon  her  face. 
I  reckollect  that  Hoover  regretted  he  done  wrong 
In  throwin'  that  there  actor  through  a  vista  ten  miles  long. 
I  reckollect  we  all  shuck  hands,  and  ordered  vin  frappay, — 
And  I  never  shall  forget  the  head  I  had  on  me  next  day! 

I  have  n't  seen  Modjesky  since;  I  'm  hopin'  to  again. 
She  's  goin'  to  show  in  Denver  soon;  I  '11  go  to  see  her  then. 
An'  may  be  I  shall  speak  to  her,  wich  if  I  do  't  will  be 
About  the  old  friend  restin'  by  the  mighty  Western  sea, — 
A  simple  man,  perhaps,  but  good  ez  gold  and  true  ez  steel; 
He  could  whip  his  weight  in  wildcats,  and  you  never  heerd  him 
squeal ; 


16  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Good  to  the  helpless  an*    the  weak;  a  brave  an'  manly  heart 
A  cyclone  could  n't  phase,  but  any  child  could  rend  apart; 
So  like  the  mountain  pine,  that  dares  the  storm  wich  sweeps  along, 
But  rocks  the  winds  uv  summer-time,  an'  sings  a  soothin'  song. 


MARTHY'S  YOUNKIT 

THE  mountain  brook  sung  lonesomelike,  and  loitered  on  its  way 
Ez  if  it  waited  for  a  child  to  jine  it  in  its  play; 
The  wild-flowers  uv  the  hillside  bent  down  their  heads  to  hear 
The  music  uv  the  little  feet  that  had  somehow  grown  so  dear; 
The  magpies,  like  winged  shadders,  wuz  a-flutterin'  to  an'  fro 
Among  the  rocks  an'  holler  stumps  in  the  ragged  gulch  below; 
The  pines  an'  hemlocks  tosst  their  boughs  (like  they  wuz  arms)  and 

made 

Soft,  sollum  music  on  the  slope  where  he  had  often  played; 
But  for  these  lonesome,  sollum  voices  on  the  mountain-side, 
There  wuz  no  sound  the  summer  day  that  Marthy's  younkit  died. 

We  called  him  Marthy's  younkit,  for  Marthy  wuz  the  name 
Uv  her  ez  wuz  his  mar,  the  wife  uv  Sorry  Tom, — the  same 
Ez  taught  the  school-house  on  the  hill,  way  back  in  '69, 
When  she  marr'd  Sorry  Tom,  wich  owned  the  Gosh-all-Hemlock 

mine! 

And  Marthy's  younkit  wuz  their  first,  wich,  bein'  how  it  meant 
The  first  on  Red  Hoss  Mountain,  wuz  truly  a'  event! 
The  miners  sawed  off  short  on  work  ez  soon  ez  they  got  word 
That  Dock  Devine  allowed  to  Casey  what  had  just  occurred; 
We  loaded  up  an'  whooped  around  until  we  all  wuz  hoarse 
Salutin'  the  arrival,  wich  weighed  ten  pounds,  uv  course ! 

Three  years,  and  sech  a  pretty  child ! — his  mother's  counterpart ! 
Three  years,  an'  sech  a  holt  ez  he  had  got  on  every  heart! — 
A  peert  an'  likely  little  tyke  with  hair  ez  red  ez  gold, 
A-laughin',  toddlin'  everywhere, — 'nd  only  three  years  old! 
Up  yonder,  sometimes,  to  the  store,  an'  sometimes  down  the  hill 
He  kited  (boys  is  boys,  you  know, — you  could  n't  keep  him  still!) 


MARTHY'S  YOUNKIT  17 

An'  there  he  'd  play  beside  the  brook  where  purpul  wild-flowers 

grew, 

An'  the  mountain  pines  an'  hemlocks  a  kindly  shadder  threw, 
An'  sung  soft,  sollum  toons  to  him,  while  in  the  gulch  below 
The  magpies,  like  strange  sperrits,  went  flutterin'  to  an'  fro. 

Three  years,  an'  then  the  fever  come, — it  wuz  n't  right,  you  know, 
With  all  us  old  ones  in  the  camp,  for  that  little  child  to  go; 
It  's  right  the  old  should  die,  but  that  a  harmless  little  child 
Should  miss  the  joy  uv  life  an'  love, — that  can't  be  reconciled! 
That 's  what  we  thought  that  summer  day,  an'  that  is  what  we 

said 

Ez  we  looked  upon  the  piteous  face  uv  Marthy's  younkit  dead. 
But  for  his  mother's  sobbin',  the  house  wuz  very  still, 
An'  Sorry  Tom  wuz  lookin',  through  the  winder,  down  the  hill, 
To  the  patch  beneath  the  hemlocks  where  his  darlin'  used  to  play, 
An'  the  mountain  brook  sung  lonesomelike  an'  loitered  on  its  way. 

A  preacher  come  from  Roarin'  Crick  to  comfort  'em  an'  pray, 
'Nd  all  the  camp  wuz  present  at  the  obsequies  next  day; 
A  female  teacher  staged  it  twenty  miles  to  sing  a  hymn, 
An'  we  jined  her  in  the  chorus, — big,  husky  men  an'  grim 
Sung  "Jesus,  Lover  uv  my  Soul,"  an'  then  the  preacher  prayed, 
An'  preacht  a  sermon  on  the  death  uv  that  fair  blossom  laid 
Among   them    other   flowers   he    loved, — wich    sermon    set    sech 

weight 

On  sinners  bein'  always  heeled  against  the  future  state, 
That,  though  it  had  been  fashionable  to  swear  a  perfec'  streak, 
There  war  n't  no  swearin'  in  the  camp  for  pretty  nigh  a  week! 

Last  thing  uv  all,  four  strappin'  men  took  up  the  little  load 

An'  bore  it  tenderly  along  the  windin',  rocky  road, 

To  where  the  coroner  had  dug  a  grave  beside  the  brook, 

In  sight  uv  Marthy's  winder,  where  the  same  could  set  an'  look 

An'  wonder  if  his  cradle  in  that  green  patch,  long  an'  wide, 

Wuz  ez  soothin'  ez  the  cradle  that  wuz  empty  at  her  side; 

An'  wonder  if  the  mournful  songs  the  pines  wuz  singin'  then 

Wuz  ez  tender  ez  the  lulla,bies  she  'd  never  sing  again, 

'Nd  if  the  bosom  of  the  earth  in  wich  he  lay  at  rest 

Wuz  half  ez  lovin'  'nd  ez  warm  ez  wuz  his  mother's  breast. 


18  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

The  camp  is  gone;    but  Red  Hoss  Mountain  rears  its  kindly 

head, 

An'  looks  down,  sort  uv  tenderly,  upon  its  cherished  dead; 
'Nd  I  reckon  that,  through  all  the  years,  that  little  boy  wich 

died 

Sleeps  sweetly  an'  contentedly  upon  the  mountain-side; 
That  the  wild-flowers  uv  the  summer-time  bend  down  their  heads 

to  hear 

The  footfall  uv  a  little  friend  they  know  not  slumbers  near; 
That  the  magpies  on  the  sollum  rocks  strange  flutterin'  shadders 

make, 

An'  the  pines  an'  hemlocks  wonder  that  the  sleeper  does  n't  wake; 
That  the  mountain  brook  sings   lonesomelike  an'  loiters  on  its 

way 
Ez  if  it  waited  for  a  child  to  jine  it  in  its  play. 


MADGE:  YE  HOYDEN 


AT  Madge,  ye  hoyden,  gossips  scofft, 
Ffor  that  a  romping  wench  was  shee — 

"Now'marke  this  rede,"  they  bade  her  oft, 
"Forsooken  sholde  your  folly  bee!" 

But  Madge,  ye  hoyden,  laught  &  cried, 
"Oho,  oho,"  in  girlish  glee, 

And  noe  thing  mo  replied. 

ii 

No  griffe  she  had  nor  knew  no  care, 
But  gayly  rompit  all  daies  long, 

And,  like  ye  brooke  that  everywhere 
Goes  jinking  with  a  gladsome  song, 

Shee  danct  and  songe  from  morn  till  night,  - 
Her  gentil  harte  did  know  no  wrong, 

Nor  did  she  none  despight. 


MADGE:  YE  HOYDEN  19 

in 

Sir  Tomas  from  his  noblesse  halle 

Did  trend  his  path  a  somer's  daye, 
And  to  ye  hoyden  he  did  call 

And  these  ffull  evill  words  did  say: 
"O  wolde  you  weare  a  silken  gown 

And  binde  your  haire  with  ribands  gay  ? 
Then  come  with  me  to  town!" 


IV 


But  Madge,  ye  hoyden,  shoke  her  head,— 

"He  be  no  lemman  unto  thee 
For  all  your  golde  and  gownes,"  shee  said, 

"ffor  Robin  hath  bespoken  mee." 
Then  ben  Sir  Tomas  sore  despight, 

And  back  unto  his  hall  went  hee 
With  face  as  ashen  white. 


"O  Robin,  wilt  thou  wed  this  girl, 
Whenas  she  is  so  vaine  a  sprite?" 

So  spak  ffull  many  an  envious  churle 
Unto  that  curteyse  countrie  wight. 

But  Robin  did  not  pay  no  heede; 
And  they  ben  wed  a  somer  night 

&  danct  upon  ye  meade. 


VI 


Then  scarse  ben  past  a  yeare  &  daye 
Whan  Robin  toke  unto  his  bed, 

And  long,  long  time  therein  he  lay, 
Nor  colde  not  work  to  earn  his  bread; 

in  soche  an  houre,  whan  times  ben  sore, 
Sr.  Tomas  came  with  haughtie  tread 

&  knockit  at  ye  doore. 


20  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

VII 

Sales:  "Madge,  ye  hoyden,  do  you  know 
how  that  you  once  despighted  me  ? 

But  He  forgiff  an  you  will  go 

my  swete  harte  lady  ffor  to  bee!" 

But  Madge,  ye  hoyden,  heard  noe  more,— 
straightway  upon  her  heele  turnt  shee, 

&  shote  ye  cottage  doore. 

VIII 

Soe  Madge,  ye  hoyden,  did  her  parte 
whiles  that  ye  years  did  come  and  go; 

't  was  somer  allwais  in  her  harte, 

tho'  winter  strewed  her  head  with  snowe. 

She  toilt  and  span  thro'  all  those  years 
nor  bid  repine  that  it  ben  soe, 

nor  never  shad  noe  teares. 


IX 


Whiles  Robin  lay  within  his  bed, 

A  divell  came  and  whispered  lowe, — 

"Giff  you  will  doe  my  will,"  he  said, 

"None  more  of  sickness  you  shall  knowe!" 

Ye  which  gave  joy  to  Robin's  soul — 
Saies  Robin:  "Divell,  be  it  soe, 

an  that  you  make  me  whoale!" 


That  day,  upp  rising  ffrom  his  bed, 
Quoth  Robin:  "I  am  well  again!" 

&  backe  he  came  as  from  ye  dead, 
&  he  ben  mickle  blithe  as  when 

he  wooed  his  doxy  long  ago; 

&  Madge  did  make  ado  &  then 

Her  teares  ffor  joy  did  flowe. 


MADGE:  YE  HOYDEN  21 

XI 

Then  came  that  hell-born  cloven  thing — 

Saies:  "Robin,  I  do  claim  your  life, 
and  I  hencefoorth  shall  be  your  king, 

and  you  shall  do  my  evill  strife. 
Look  round  about  and  you  shall  see 

sr.  Tomas'  young  and  ffoolish  wiffe — 
a  comely  dame  is  shee!" 

XII 

Ye  divell  had  him  in  his  power, 

and  not  colde  Robin  say  thereto: 
Soe  Robin  from  that  very  houre 

did  what  that  divell  bade  him  do; 
He  wooed  and  dipt,  and  on  a  daye 

sr.  Tomas'  wife  and  Robin  flewe 
a  many  leagues  away. 

XIII 

Sir  Tomas  ben  wood  wroth  and  swore, 
And  sometime  strode  thro'  leaf  &  brake 

and  knockit  at  ye  cottage  door 

and  thus  to  Madge,  ye  hoyden,  spake: 

Saies,  "I  wolde  have  you  ffor  mine  own, 
So  come  with  mee  &  bee  my  make, 

syn  tother  birds  ben  flown." 

XIV 

But  Madge,  ye  hoyden,  bade  him  noe; 

Saies:  "Robin  is  my  swete  harte  still, 
And,  tho'  he  doth  despight  me  soe, 

I  mean  to  do  him  good  for  ill. 
So  goe,  Sir  Tomas,  goe  your  way; 

ffor  whiles  I  bee  on  live  I  will 
ffor  Robin's  coming  pray!" 


22  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

XV 

Soe  Madge,  ye  hoyden,  kneelt  &  prayed 
that  Godde  sholde  send  her  Robin  backe. 

And  tho'  ye  folke  vast  scoffing  made, 

and  tho'  ye  worlde  ben  colde  and  blacke, 

And  tho',  as  moneths  dragged  away, 
ye  hoyden's  harte  ben  like  to  crack 

With  griff,  she  still  did  praye. 

XVI 

Sicke  of  that  divell's  damned  charmes, 
Aback  did  Robin  come  at  last, 

And  Madge,  ye  hoyden,  sprad  her  arms 
and  gave  a  cry  and  held  him  fast; 

And  as  she  clong  to  him  and  cried, 
her  patient  harte  with  joy  did  brast, 

&  Madge,  ye  hoyden,  died. 


THE  BIBLIOMANIAC'S  PRAYER 

KEEP  me,  I  pray,  in  wisdom's  way 

That  I  may  truths  eternal  seek; 
I  need  protecting  care  to-day, — 

My  purse  is  light,  my  flesh  is  weak. 
So  banish  from  my  erring  heart 

All  baleful  appetites  and  hints 
Of  Satan's  fascinating  art, 

Of  first  editions,  and  of  prints. 
Direct  me  in  some  godly  walk 

Which  leads  away  from  bookish  strife, 
That  I  with  pious  deed  and  talk 

May  extra-illustrate  my  life. 

But  if,  O  Lord,  it  pleaseth  Thee 
To  keep  me  in  temptation's  way, 

I  humbly  ask  that  I  may  be 
Most  notably  beset  to-day; 


THE  TRUTH  ABOUT  HORACE  23 

Let  my  temptation  be  a  book, 

Which  I  shall  purchase,  hold,  and  keep, 
Whereon  when  other  men  shall  look, 

They  '11  wail  to  know  I  got  it  cheap. 
Oh,  let  it  such  a  volume  be 

As  in  rare  copperplates  abounds, 
Large  paper,  clean,  and  fair  to  see, 

Uncut,  unique,  unknown  to  Lowndes. 


THE  TRUTH  ABOUT  HORACE 

IT  is  very  aggravating 

To  hear  the  solemn  prating 

Of  the  fossils  who  are  stating 

That  old  Horace  was  a  prude; 
When  we  know  that  with  the  ladies 
He  was  always  raising  Hades, 
And  with  many  an  escapade  his 

Best  productions  are  imbued. 

There  's  really  not  much  harm  in  a 
Large  number  of  his  carmina, 
But  these  people  find  alarm  in  a 

Few  records  of  his  acts; 
So  they  'd  squelch  the  muse  caloric, 
And  to  students  sophomoric 
They  'd  present  as  metaphoric 

What  old  Horace  meant  for  facts. 

We  have  always  thought  'em  lazy; 
Now  we  adjudge  'em  crazy! 
Why,  Horace  was  a  daisy 

That  was  very  much  alive! 
And  the  wisest  of  us  know  him 
As  his  Lydia  verses  show  him, — 
Go,  read  that  virile  poem, — 

It  is  No.  25. 


24  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

He  was  a  very  owl,  sir, 

And  starting  out  to  prowl,  sir, 

You  bet  he  made  Rome  howl,  sir, 

Until  he  filled  his  date; 
With  a  massic-laden  ditty 
And  a  classic  maiden  pretty 
He  painted  up  the  city, 

And  Maecenas  paid  the  freight! 


OUR  TWO  OPINIONS 

Us  two  wuz  boys  when  we  fell  out, — 

Nigh  to  the  age  uv  my  youngest  now; 
Don't  rec'lect  what  't  wuz  about, 

Some  small  deeff'rence,  I  '11  allow. 
Lived  next  neighbors  twenty  years, 

A-hatin'  each  other,  me  'nd  Jim, — 
He  havin'  his  opinyin  uv  me, 

'Nd  /  havin'  my  opinyin  uv  him. 

Grew  up  together  'nd  would  n't  speak, 

Courted  sisters,  'nd  marr'd  'em,  too; 
'Tended  same  meetin' -house  oncet  a  week, 

A-hatin'  each  other  through  'nd  through! 
But  when  Abe  Linkern  asked  the  West 

F'r  soldiers,  we  answered, — me  'nd  Jim, — 
He  havin'  his  opinyin  uv  me, 

'Nd  /  havin'  my  opinyin  uv  him. 

But  down  in  Tennessee  one  night 

Ther'  wuz  sound  uv  firin'  fur  away, 
'Nd  the  sergeant  allowed  ther'  'd  be  a  fight 

With  the  Johnnie  Rebs  some  time  nex'  day; 
'Nd  as  I  wuz  thinkin'  uv  Lizzie  'nd  home 

Jim  stood  afore  me,  long  'nd  slim,— 
He  havin'  his  opinyin  uv  me, 

'Nd  /  havin'  my  opinyin  uv  him. 


LITTLE   MACK  25 

Seemed  like  we  knew  there  wuz  goin'  to  be 

Serious  trouble  fr  me  'nd  him; 
Us  two  shuck  hands,  did  Jim  'nd  me, 

But  never  a  word  from  me  or  Jim! 
He  went  his  way  'nd  /  went  mine, 

'Nd  into  the  battle's  roar  went  we, — 
/  havin'  my  opinyin  uv  Jim, 

'Nd  he  havin'  his  opinyin  uv  me. 

Jim  never  come  back  from  the  war  again, 

But  I  hain't  forgot  that  last,  last  night 
When,  waitin'  fr  orders,  us  two  men 

Made  up  'nd  shuck  hands,  afore  the  fight. 
'Nd,  after  it  all,  it 's  soothin'  to  know 

That  here  I  be  'nd  yonder  's  Jim, — 
He  havin'  his  opinyin  uv  me, 

'Nd  /  havin'  my  opinyin  uv  him. 


LITTLE  MACK 

THIS  talk  about  the  journalists  that  run  the  East  is  bosh, 
We  've  got  a  Western  editor  that's  little,  but,  O  gosh! 
He  lives  here  in  Mizzoora  where  the  people  are  so  set 
In  ante-bellum  notions  that  they  vote  for  Jackson  yet; 
But  the  paper  he  is  running  makes  the  rusty  fossils  swear, — 
The  smartest,  likeliest  paper  that  is  printed  anywhere! 
And,  best  of  all,  the  paragraphs  are  pointed  as  a  tack, 
And  that 's  because  they  emanate 
From  little  Mack. 

In  architecture  he  is  what  you'd  call  a  chunky  man, 
As  if  he  'd  been  constructed  on  the  summer  cottage  plan; 
He  has  a  nose  like  Bonaparte;  and  round  his  mobile  mouth 
Lies  all  the  sensuous  languor  of  the  children  of  the  South; 
His  dealings  with  reporters  who  affect  a  weekly  bust 
Have  given  to  his  violet  eyes  a  shadow  of  distrust; 
In  glorious  abandon  his  brown  hair  wanders  back 
From  the  grand  Websterian  forehead 
Of  little  Mack. 


26  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

No  matter  what  the  item  is,  if  there  's  an  item  in  it, 
You  bet  your  life  he  's  on  to  it  and  nips  it  in  a  minute ! 
From  multifarious  nations,  countries,  monarchies,  and  lands, 
From  Afric's  sunny  fountains  and  India's  coral  strands, 
From  Greenland's  icy  mountains  and  Siloam's  shady  rills, 
He  gathers  in  his  telegrams,  and  Houser  pays  the  bills; 
What  though  there  be  a  dearth  of  news,  he  has  a  happy  knack 
Of  scraping  up  a  lot  of  scoops, 
Does  little  Mack. 

And  learning?     Well  he  knows  the  folks  of  every  tribe  and  age 
That  ever  played  a  part  upon  this  fleeting  human  stage; 
His  intellectual  system  's  so  extensive  and  so  greedy 
That,  when  it  comes  to  records,  he  's  a  walkin'  cyclopedy; 
For  having  studied  (and  digested)  all  the  books  a-goin', 
It  stands  to  reason  he  must  know  about  all 's  worth  a-knowin' ! 
So  when  a  politician  with  a  record  's  on  the  track, 
We  're  apt  to  hear  some  history 
From  little  Mack. 

And  when  a  fellow-journalist  is  broke  and  needs  a  twenty, 
Who  's  allus  ready  to  whack  up  a  portion  of  his  plenty  ? 
Who  's  allus  got  a  wallet  that 's  as  full  of  sordid  gain 
As  his  heart  is  full  of  kindness  and  his  head  is  full  of  brain  ? 
Whose  bowels  of  compassion  will  in-va-ri-a-bly  move 
Their  owner  to  those  courtesies  which  plainly,  surely  prove 
That  he  's  the  kind  of  person  that  never  does  go  back 
On  a  fellow  that 's  in  trouble  ? 
Why,  little  Mack! 

I've  heard  'em  tell  of  Dana,  and  of  Bonner,  and  of  Reid, 

Of  Johnnie  Cockerill,  who,  I  '11  own,  is  very  smart  indeed; 

Yet  I  don't  care  what  their  renown  or  influence  may  be, 

One  metropolitan  exchange  is  quite  enough  for  me! 

So  keep  your  Danas,  Bonners,  Reids,  your  Cockerills,  and  the 

rest, 

The  woods  is  full  of  better  men  all  through  this  woolly  West; 
For  all  that  sleek,  pretentious,  Eastern  editorial  pack 
We  would  n't  swap  the  shadow  of 
Our  little  Mack! 


TO   ROBIN   GOODFELLOW  27 


TO  ROBIN  GOODFELLOW 

I  SEE  you,  Maister  Bawsy-brown, 

Through  yonder  lattice  creepin'; 
You  come  for  cream  and  to  gar  me  dream, 

But  you  dinna  find  me  sleepin'. 
The  moonbeam,  that  upon  the  floor 

Wi'  crickets  ben  a-jinkin', 
Now  steals  away  fra'  her  bonnie  play — 

Wi'  a  rosier  blie,  I  'm  thinkin'. 

I  saw  you,  Maister  Bawsy-brown, 

When  the  blue  bells  went  a-ringin' 
For  the  merrie  fays  o'  the  banks  an'  braes, 

And  I  kenned  your  bonnie  singin'; 
The  gowans  gave  you  honey  sweets, 

And  the  posies  on  the  heather 
Dript  draughts  o'  dew  for  the  faery  crew 

That  danct  and  sang  together. 

But  posie-bloom  an'  simmer-dew 

And  ither  sweets  o'  faery 
C'u'd  na  gae  down  wi'  Bawsy-brown, 

Sae  nigh  to  Maggie's  dairy! 
My  pantry  shelves,  sae  clean  and  white, 

Are  set  wi'  cream  and  cheeses, — 
Gae,  gin  you  will,  an'  take  your  fill 

Of  whatsoever  pleases. 

Then  wave  your  wand  aboon  my  een 

Until  they  close  awearie, 
And  the  night  be  past  sae  sweet  and  fast 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  my  dearie. 
But  pinch  the  wench  in  yonder  room, 

For  she  's  na  gude  nor  bonnie, — 
Her  shelves  be  dust  and  her  pans  be  rust, 

And  she  winkit  at  my  Johnnie! 


28  WESTERN    AND    OTHER   VERSE 


APPLE-PIE  AND  CHEESE 

FULL  many  a  sinful  notion 

Conceived  of  foreign  powers 
Has  come  across  the  ocean 

To  harm  this  land  of  ours; 
And  heresies  called  fashions 

Have  modesty  effaced, 
And  baleful,  morbid  passions 

Corrupt  our  native  taste. 

0  temporal     O  mores! 
What  profanations  these 

That  seek  to  dim  the  glories 
Of  apple-pie  and  cheese! 

1  'm  glad  my  education 

Enables  me  to  stand 
Against  the  vile  temptation 

Held  out  on  every  hand; 
Eschewing  all  the  tittles 

With  vanity  replete, 
I  'm  loyal  to  the  victuals 

Our  grandsires  used  to  eat! 
I  'm  glad  I  've  got  three  willing  boys 

To  hang  around  and  tease 
Their  mother  for  the  filling  joys 

Of  apple-pie  and  cheese! 

Your  flavored  creams  and  ices 

And  your  dainty  angel-food 
Are  mighty  fine  devices 

To  regale  the  dainty  dude; 
Your  terrapin  and  oysters, 

With  wine  to  wash  'em  down, 
Are  just  the  thing  for  roisters 

When  painting  of  the  town; 
No  flippant,  sugared  notion 

Shall  my  appetite  appease, 
Or  bate  my  soul's  devotion 

To  apple-pie  and  cheese! 


APPLE-PIE    AND    CHEESE  29 

The  pie  my  Julia  makes  me 

(God  bless  her  Yankee  ways!) 
On  memory's  pinions  takes  me 

To  dear  Green  Mountain  days; 
And  seems  like  I  see  Mother 

Lean  on  the  window-sill, 
A-handin'  me  and  brother 

What  she  knows  '11  keep  us  still; 
And  these  feelings  are  so  grateful, 

Says  I,  "  Julia,  if  you  please, 
I  '11  take  another  plateful 

Of  that  apple-pie  and  cheese!" 


And  cheese!    No  alien  it,  sir, 

That 's  brought  across  the  sea, — 
No  Dutch  antique,  nor  Switzer, 

Nor  glutinous  de  Brie; 
There  's  nothing  I  abhor  so 

As  mawmets  of  this  ilk — 
Give  me  the  harmless  morceau 

That 's  made  of  true-blue  milk! 
No  matter  what  conditions 

Dyspeptic  come  to  feaze, 
The  best  of  all  physicians 

Is  apple-pie  and  cheese! 


Though  ribalds  may  decry  'em, 

For  these  twin  boons  we  stand, 
Partaking  thrice  per  diem 

Of  their  fulness  out  of  hand; 
No  enervating  fashion 

Shall  cheat  us  of  our  right 
To  gratify  our  passion 

With  a  mouthful  at  a  bite! 
We  '11  cut  it  square  or  bias, 

Or  any  way  we  please, 
And  faith  shall  justify  us 

When  we  carve  our  pie  and  cheese! 


30  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

De  gustibus,  't  is  stated, 

Non  disputandum  est. 
Which  meaneth,  when  translated, 

That  all  is  for  the  best. 
So  let  the  foolish  choose  'em 

The  vapid  sweets  of  sin, 
I  will  not  disabuse  'em 

Of  the  heresy  they  're  in; 
But  I,  when  I  undress  me 

Each  night,  upon  my  knees 
Will  ask  the  Lord  to  bless  me 

With  apple-pie  and  cheese! 


THE  LITTLE  PEACH 

A  LITTLE  peach  in  the  orchard  grew, — 

A  little  peach  of  emerald  hue; 
Warmed  by  the  sun  and  wet  by  the  dew. 
It  grew. 

One  day,  passing  that  orchard  through, 
That  little  peach  dawned  on  the  view 
Of  Johnny  Jones  and  his  sister  Sue — 
Them  two. 

Up  at  that  peach  a  club  they  threw — 
Down  from  the  stem  on  which  it  grew 
Fell  that  peach  of  emerald  hue. 
Mon  Dieu! 

John  took  a  bite  and  Sue  a  chew, 
And  then  the  trouble  began  to  brew, — 
Trouble  the  doctor  could  n't  subdue. 
Too  true! 

Under  the  turf  where  the  daisies  grew 
They  planted  John  and  his  sister  Sue, 
And  their  little  souls  to  the  angels  flew, — 
Boo  hoo! 


THE   DIVINE    LULLABY  31 

What  of  that  peach  of  the  emerald  hue, 
Warmed  by  the  sun,  and  wet  by  the  dew? 
Ah,  well,  its  mission  on  earth  is  through. 

Adieu! 
1880 


THE  DIVINE  LULLABY 

I  HEAR  Thy  voice,  dear  Lord; 
I  hear  it  by  the  stormy  sea 

When  winter  nights  are  black  and  wild, 
And  when,  affright,  I  call  to  Thee; 
It  calms  my  fears  and  whispers  me, 

"Sleep  well,  my  child." 

I  hear  Thy  voice,  dear  Lord, 
In  singing  winds,  in  falling  snow, 

The  curfew  chimes,  the  midnight  bell. 
"Sleep  well,  my  child,"  it  murmurs  low; 
"The  guardian  angels  come  and  go, — 

0  child,  sleep  well!" 

1  hear  Thy  voice,  dear  Lord, 

Ay,  though  the  singing  winds  be  stilled, 

Though  hushed  the  tumult  of  the  deep, 
My  fainting  heart  with  anguish  chilled 
By  Thy  assuring  tone  is  thrilled, — 
"Fear  not,  and  sleep!" 

Speak  on — speak  on,  dear  Lord! 
And  when  the  last  dread  night  is  near, 

With  doubts  and  fears  and  terrors  wild, 
Oh,  let  my  soul  expiring  hear 
Only  these  words  of  heavenly  cheer, 

"Sleep  well,  my  child!" 


32  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 


DE  AMICITIIS 

THOUGH  care  and  strife 

Elsewhere  be  rife, 
Upon  my  word  I  do  not  heed  'em; 

In  bed  I  lie 

With  books  hard  by, 
And  with  increasing  zest  I  read  'em. 

Propped  up  in  bed, 

So  much  I  've  read 
Of  musty  tomes  that  I  've  a  headful 

Of  tales  and  rhymes 

Of  ancient  times, 
Which,  wife  declares,  are  " simply  dreadful! 

They  give  me  joy 

Without  alloy; 
And  is  n't  that  what  books  are  made  for? 

And  yet — and  yet — 

(Ah,  vain  regret!) 
I  would  to  God  they  all  were  paid  for! 

No  festooned  cup 

Filled  foaming  up 
Can  lure  me  elsewhere  to  confound  me: 

Sweeter  than  wine 

This  love  of  mine 
For  these  old  books  I  see  around  me! 


A  plague,  I  say, 

On  maidens  gay; 
I  '11  weave  no  compliments  to  tell  'em! 

Vain  fool  I  were, 

Did  I  prefer 
Those  dolls  to  these  old  friends  in  vellum! 


DE    AMICITIIS  33 

At  dead  of  night 

My  chamber  's  bright 
Not  only  with  the  gas  that 's  burning, 

But  with  the  glow 

Of  long  ago, — 
Of  beauty  back  from  eld  returning. 

Fair  women's  looks 

I  see  in  books, 
I  see  them,  and  I  hear  their  laughter,— - 

Proud,  high-born  maids, 

Unlike  the  jades 
Which  men-folk  now  go  chasing  after! 

Herein  again 

Speak  valiant  men 
Of  all  nativities  and  ages; 

I  hear  and  smile 

With  rapture  while 
I  turn  these  musty,  magic  pages. 

The  sword,  the  lance, 

The  morris  dance, 
The  highland  song,  the  greenwood  ditty3 

Of  these  I  read, 

Or,  when  the  need, 
My  Miller  grinds  me  grist  that 's  gritty! 

When  of  such  stuff 

We  've  had  enough, 
Why,  there  be  other  friends  to  greet  us; 

We  '11  moralize 

In  solemn  wise 
With  Plato  or  with  Epictetus. 

Sneer  as  you  may, 
/  'm  proud  to  say 
That  I,  for  one,  am  very  grateful 


34  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

To  Heaven,  that  sends 
These  genial  friends 
To  banish  other  friendships  hateful! 

And  when  I  'm  done, 

I  Jd  have  no  son 
Pounce  on  these  treasures  like  a  vulture; 

Nay,  give  them  half 

My  epitaph, 
And  let  them  share  in  my  sepulture. 

Then,  when  the  crack 
Of  doom  rolls  back 

The  marble  and  the  earth  that  hide  me, 
I  '11  smuggle  home 
Each  precious  tome, 

Without  a  fear  my  wife  shall  chide  me! 


THE  WANDERER 

UPON  a  mountain  height,  far  from  the  sea, 

I  found  a  shell, 

And  to  my  listening  ear  the  lonely  thing 
Ever  a  song  of  ocean  seemed  to  sing, 

Ever  a  tale  of  ocean  seemed  to  tell. 

How  came  the  shell  upon  that  mountain  height? 

Ah,  who  can  say 

Whether  there  dropped  by  some  too  careless  hand, 
Or  whether  there  cast  when  Ocean  swept  the  Land; 

Ere  the  Eternal  had  ordained  the  Day? 

Strange,  was  it  not?     Far  from  its  native  deep, 

One  song  it  sang, — 
Sang  of  the  awful  mysteries  of  the  tide, 
Sang  of  the  misty  sea,  profound  and  wide, — 

Ever  with  echoes  of  the  ocean  rang. 


SOLDIER,    MAIDEN,   AND   FLOWER  35 

And  as  the  shell  upon  the  mountain  height 

Sings  of  the  sea, 

So  do  I  ever,  leagues  and  leagues  away, — 
So  do  I  ever,  wandering  where  I  may, — 

Sing,  O  my  home!   sing,  O  my  home!   of  thee. 

1883. 


SOLDIER,  MAIDEN,  AND  FLOWER 

"  SWEETHEART,  take  this,"  a  soldier  said, 

"And  bid  me  brave  good-by; 
It  may  befall  we  ne'er  shall  wed, 

But  love  can  never  die. 
Be  steadfast  in  thy  troth  to  me, 

And  then,  whate'er  my  lot, 
'My  soul  to  God,  my  heart  to  thee/ — 

Sweetheart,  forget  me  not!" 

The  maiden  took  the  tiny  flower 

And  nursed  it  with  her  tears: 
Lo!   he  who  left  her  in  that  hour 

Came  not  in  after  years. 
Unto  a  hero's  death  he  rode 

'Mid  shower  of  fire  and  shot; 
But  in  the  maiden's  heart  abode 

The  flower,  forget-me-not. 

And  when  he  came  not  with  the  rest 

From  out  the  years  of  blood, 
Closely  unto  her  widowed  breast 

She  pressed  a  faded  bud; 
Oh,  there  is  love  and  there  is  pain, 

And  there  is  peace,  God  wot, — 
And  these  dear  three  do  live  again 

In  sweet  forget-me-not. 


36  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

'T  is  to  an  unmarked  grave  to-da^ 

That  I  should  love  to  go, — 
Whether  he  wore  the  blue  or  gray, 

What  need  that  we  should  know? 
"He  loved  a  woman,"  let  us  say, 

And  on  that  sacred  spot, 
To  woman's  love,  that  lives  for  aye, 

We  '11  strew  forget-me-not. 

1887. 


AILSIE,  MY  BAIRN 

LIE  in  my  arms,  Ailsie,  my  bairn, — 

Lie  in  my  arms  and  dinna  greit; 
Long  time  been  past  syn  I  kenned  you  last, 

But  my  harte  been  allwais  the  same,  my  swete. 

Ailsie,  I  colde  not  say  you  ill, 

For  out  of  the  mist  of  your  bitter  tears, 

And  the  prayers  that  rise  from  your  bonnie  eyes, 
Cometh  a  promise  of  oder  yeres. 

I  mind  the  time  when  we  lost  our  bairn, — 
Do  you  ken  that  time?     A  wambling  tot, 

You  wandered  away  ane  simmer  day, 

And  we  hunted  and  called,  and  found  you  not. 

I  promised  God,  if  He  'd  send  you  back, 
Alwaies  to  keepe  and  to  love  you,  childe; 

And  I  'm  thinking  again  of  that  promise  when 
I  see  you  creep  out  of  the  storm  sae  wild. 

You  came  back  then  as  you  come  back  now, — 
Your  kirtle  torn  and  your  face  all  white; 

And  you  stood  outside  and  knockit  and  cried, 
Just  as  you,  dearie,  did  to-night. 


MR.    DANA,    OF   THE   NEW   YORK   SUN  37 

Oh,  never  a  word  of  the  cruel  wrang, 

That  has  faded  your  cheek  and  dimmed  your  ee; 
And  never  a  word  of  the  fause,  fause  lord, — 

Only  a  smile  and  a  kiss  for  me. 

Lie  in  my  arms,  as  long,  long  syne, 

And  sleepe  on  my  bosom,  deere  wounded  thing,— 
I  'm  nae  sae  glee  as  I  used  to  be, 

Or  I  'd  sing  you  the  songs  I  used  to  sing. 

But  He  kemb  my  fingers  thro'  y'r  haire, 

And  nane  shall  know,  but  you  and  I, 
Of  the  love  and  the  faith  that  came  to  us  baith 

When  Ailsie,  my  bairn,  came  home  to  die. 


MR.   DANA,   OF  THE  NEW  YORK  SUN 

THAR  showed  up  out'n  Denver  in  the  spring  uv  '81 
A  man  who  'd  worked  with  Dana  on  the  Noo  York  Sun. 
His  name  wuz  Cantell  Whoppers,  'nd  he  wuz  a  sight  ter  view 
Ez  he  walked  inter  the  orfice  'nd  inquired  fer  work  ter  do. 
Thar  war  n't  no  places  vacant  then, — fer  be  it  understood, 
That  wuz  the  time  when  talent  flourished  at  that  altitood; 
But  thar  the  stranger  lingered,  tellin'  Raymond  'nd  the  rest 
Uv  what  perdigious  wonders  he  could  do  when  at  his  best, 
Till  finally  he  stated  (quite  by  chance)  that  he  hed  done 
A  heap  uv  work  with  Dana  on  the  Noo  York  Sun. 

Wall,  that  wuz  quite  another  thing;   we  owned  that  ary  cuss 

Who  'd  worked  f'r  Mr.  Dana  must  be  good  enough  fer  us! 

And  so  we  tuk  the  stranger's  word  'nd  nipped  him  while  we  could, 

For  if  we  did  n't  take  him  we  knew  John  Arkins  would; 

And  Cooper,  too,  wuz  mouzin'  round  fer  enterprise  'nd  brains, 

Whenever  them  commodities  blew  in  across  the  plains. 

At  any  rate  we  nailed  him,  which  made  ol'  Cooper  swear 

And  Arkins  tear  out  handfuls  uv  his  copious  curly  hair; 

But  we  set  back  and  cackled,  'nd  hed  a  power  uv  fun 

With  our  man  who  'd  worked  with  Dana  on  the  Noo  York  Sun. 


38  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

It  made  our  eyes  hang  on  our  cheeks  Jnd  lower  jaws  ter  drop, 
Ter  hear  that  feller  tellin'  how  ol'  Dana  run  his  shop: 
It  seems  that  Dana  wuz  the  biggest  man  you  ever  saw, — 
He  lived  on  human  bein's,  'nd  preferred  to  eat  'em  raw! 
If  he  hed  Democratic  drugs  ter  take,  before  he  took  'em, 
As  good  old  allopathic  laws  prescribe,  he  allus  shook  'em. 
The  man  that  could  set  down  'nd  write  like  Dany  never  grew, 
And  the  sum  of  human  knowledge  wuz  n't  half  what  Dana  knew; 
The  consequence  appeared  to  be  that  nearly  every  one 
Concurred  with  Mr.  Dana  of  the  Noo  York  Sun. 

This  feller,  Cantell  Whoppers,  never  brought  an  item  in, — 

He  spent  his  time  at  Perrin's  shakin'  poker  dice  f'r  gin. 

Whatever  the  assignment,  he  wuz  allus  sure  to  shirk, 

He  wuz  very  long  on  likker  and  all-fired  short  on  work! 

If  any  other  cuss  had  played  the  tricks  he  dared  ter  play, 

The  daisies  would  be  bloomin'  over  his  remains  to-day; 

But  somehow  folks  respected  him  and  stood  him  to  the  last, 

Considerin'  his  superior  connections  in  the  past. 

So,  when  he  bilked  at  poker,  not  a  sucker  drew  a  gun 

On  the  man  who  'd  worked  with  Dana  on  the  Noo  York  Sun. 

Wall,  Dana  came  ter  Denver  in  the  fall  uv  '83, 

A  very  different  party  from  the  man  we  thought  ter  see, — 

A  nice  'nd  clean  old  gentleman,  so  dignerfied  'nd  calm, 

You  bet  yer  life  he  never  did  no  human  bein'  harm! 

A  certain  hearty  manner  'nd  a  fulness  uv  the  vest 

Betokened  that  his  sperrits  'nd  his  victuals  wuz  the  best; 

His  face  wuz  so  benevolent,  his  smile  so  sweet  'nd  kind, 

That  they  seemed  to  be  the  reflex  uv  an  honest,  healthy  mind; 

And  God  had  set  upon  his  head  a  crown  uv  silver  hair 

In  promise  uv  the  golden  crown  He  meaneth  him  to  wear. 

So,  uv  us  boys  that  met  him  out'n  Denver,  there  wuz  none 

But  fell  in  love  with  Dana  uv  the  Noo  York  Sun. 

But  when  he  came  to  Denver  in  that  fall  uv  '83, 
His  old  friend  Cantell  Whoppers  disappeared  upon  a  spree; 
The  very  thought  uv  seein'  Dana  worked  upon  him  so 
(They  had  n't  been  together  fer  a  year  or  two,  you  know), 


MR.  DANA,  OF  THE  NEW  YORK  SUN          39 

That  he  borrered  all  the  stuff  he  could  and  started  on  a  bat, 
And,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  we  did  n't  see  him  after  that. 
So,  when  oY  Dana  hove  in  sight,  we  could  n't  understand 
Why  he  did  n't  seem  to  notice  that  his  crony  wa'n't  on  hand; 
No  casual  allusion,  not  a  question,  no,  not  one, 
For  the  man  who  'd  "worked  with  Dana  on  the  Noo  York  Sun!" 


We  broke  it  gently  to  him,  but  he  did  n't  seem  surprised, 

Thar  wuz  no  big  burst  uv  passion  as  we  fellers  had  surmised. 

He  said  that  Whoppers  wuz  a  man  he  'd  never  heerd  about, 

But  he  mought  have  carried  papers  on  a  Jarsey  City  route; 

And  then  he  recollected  hearin'  Mr.  Laffan  say 

That  he  'd  fired  a  man  named  Whoppers  fur  bein'  drunk  one  day, 

Which,  with  more  likker  underneath  than  money  in  his  vest, 

Had  started  on  a  freight-train  fur  the  great  'nd  boundin'  West, 

But  further  information  or  statistics  he  had  none 

Uv  the  man  who  'd  "  worked  with  Dana  on  the  Noo  York  Sun." 

We  dropped  the  matter  quietly  'nd  never  made  no  fuss, — 

When  we  get  played  for  suckers,  why,  that's  a  horse  on  us! — 

But  every  now  'nd  then  we  Denver  fellers  have  to  laff 

To  hear  some  other  paper  boast  uv  havin'  on  its  staff 

A  man  who  's  "  worked  with  Dana,"  'nd  then  we  fellers  wink 

And  pull  our  hats  down  on  our  eyes  'nd  set  around  'nd  think. 

It  seems  like  Dana  could  n't  be  as  smart  as  people  say, 

If  he  educates  so  many  folks  'nd  lets  'em  get  away; 

And,  as  for  us,  in  future  we  '11  be  very  apt  to  shun 

The  man  who  "worked  with  Dana  on  the  Noo  York  Sun." 

But  bless  ye,  Mr.  Dana!   may  you  live  a  thousan'  years, 

To  sort  o'  keep  things  lively  in  this  vale  of  human  tears; 

An'  may  I  live  a  thousan',  too, — a  thousan'  less  a  day, 

For  I  should  n't  like  to  be  on  earth  to  hear  you  'd  passed  away. 

And  when  it  comes  your  time  to  go  you  '11  need  no  Latin  chaff 

Nor  biographic  data  put  in  your  epitaph; 

But  one  straight  line  of  English  and  of  truth  will  let  folks  know 

The  homage  'nd  the  gratitude  'nd  reverence  they  owe; 

You  '11  need  no  epitaph  but  this:     "Here  sleeps  the  man  who  run 

That  best  'nd  brightest  paper,  the  Noo  York  Sun." 


40  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 


THE  TWENTY-THIRD  PSALM 

MY  Shepherd  is  the  Lord  my  God, — 

There  is  no  want  I  know; 
His  flock  He  leads  in  verdant  meads, 

Where  tranquil  waters  flow. 

He  doth  restore  my  fainting  soul 

With  His  divine  caress, 
And,  when  I  stray,  He  points  the  way 

To  paths  of  righteousness. 

Yea,  though  I  walk  the  vale  of  death, 

What  evil  shall  I  fear? 
Thy  staff  and  rod  are  mine,  O  God, 

And  Thou,  my  Shepherd,  near! 

Mine  enemies  behold  the  feast 

Which  my  dear  Lord  hath  spread; 

And,  lo!  my  cup  He  filleth  up, 
With  oil  anoints  my  head! 

Goodness  and  mercy  shall  be  mine 

Unto  my  dying  day; 
Then  will  I  bide  at  His  dear  side 

Forever  and  for  aye! 


THE  BIBLIOMANIAC'S  BRIDE 

THE  women-folk  are  like  to  books, — 

Most  pleasing  to  the  eye, 
Whereon  if  anybody  looks 

He  feels  disposed  to  buy. 


THE  BIBLIOMANIAC'S  BRIDE  41 

I  hear  that  many  are  for  sale, — 

Those  that  record  no  dates, 
And  such  editions  as  regale 

The  view  with  colored  plates. 

Of  every  quality  and  grade 

And  size  they  may  be  found, — 
Quite  often  beautifully  made, 

As  often  poorly  bound. 

Now,  as  for  me,  had  I  my  choice, 

I  'd  choose  no  folio  tall, 
But  some  octavo  to  rejoice 

My  sight  and  heart  withal, — 

As  plump  and  pudgy  as  a  snipe; 

Well  worth  her  weight  in  gold; 
Of  honest,  clean,  conspicuous  type, 

And  just  the  size  to  hold! 

With  such  a  volume  for  my  wife 

How  should  I  keep  and  con! 
How  like  a  dream  should  run  my  life 

Unto  its  colophon! 

Her  frontispiece  should  be  more  fair 

Than  any  colored  plate; 
Blooming  with  health,  she  would  not  care 

To  extra-illustrate. 

And  in  her  pages  there  should  be 

A  wealth  of  prose  and  verse, 
With  now  and  then  a  jeu  d'esprit, — 

But  nothing  ever  worse! 

Prose  for  me  when  I  wished  for  prose, 

Verse  when  to  verse  inclined, — 
Forever  bringing  sweet  repose 

To  body,  heart,  and  mind. 


42  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Oh,  I  should  bind  this  priceless  prize 

In  bindings  full  and  fine, 
And  keep  her  where  no  human  eyes 

Should  see  her  charms,  but  mine! 

With  such  a  fair  unique  as  this 

What  happiness  abounds! 
Who — who  could  paint  my  rapturous  bliss* 

My  joy  unknown  to  Lowndes! 


CHRISTMAS   HYMN 

SING,  Christmas  bells! 

Say  to  the  earth  this  is  the  morn 
Whereon  our  Saviour-King  is  born; 

Sing  to  all  men, — the  bond,  the  free, 
The  rich,  the  poor,  the  high,  the  low, 
The  little  child  that  sports  in  glee, 
The  aged  folk  that  tottering  go, — 

Proclaim  the  morn 

That  Christ  is  born, 
That  saveth  them  and  saveth  me! 

Sing,  angel  host! 

Sing  of  the  star  that  God  has  placed 
Above  the  manger  in  the  east; 

Sing  of  the  glories  of  the  night, 
The  virgin's  sweet  humility, 

The  Babe  with  kingly  robes  bedight, — 
Sing  to  all  men  where'er  they  be 

This  Christmas  morn; 

For  Christ  is  born, 
That  saveth  them  and  saveth  me! 

Sing,  sons  of  earth! 
O  ransomed  seed  of  Adam,  sing! 
God  liveth,  and  we  have  a  king! 

The  curse  is  gone,  the  bond  are  free, — 


"GOOD-BY — GOD  BLESS  YOU!"  43 

By  Bethlehem's  star  that  brightly  beamed, 

By  all  the  heavenly  signs  that  be, 

We  know  that  Israel  is  redeemed; 

That  on  this  morn 

The  Christ  is  born 

That  saveth  you  and  saveth  me! 

Sing,  O  my  heart! 
Sing  thou  in  rapture  this  dear  morn 
Whereon  the  blessed  Prince  is  born! 
And  as  thy  songs  shall  be  of  love, 
So  let  my  deeds  be  charity, — 

By  the  dear  Lord  that  reigns  above, 
By  Him  that  died  upon  the  tree, 
By  this  fair  morn 
Whereon  is  born 
The  Christ  that  saveth  all  and  me! 


"GOOD-BY—GOD  BLESS  YOU!" 

I  LIKE  the  Anglo-Saxon  speech 

With  its  direct  revealings; 
It  takes  a  hold,  and  seems  to  reach 

'Way  down  into  your  feelings; 
That  some  folk  deem  it  rude,  I  know, 

And  therefore  they  abuse  it; 
But  I  have  never  found  it  so, — 

Before  all  else  I  choose  it. 
I  don't  object  that  men  should  air 

The  Gallic  they  have  paid  for, 
With  "Au  revoir,"  "Adieu,  ma  chere," 

For  that 's  what  French  was  made  for. 
But  when  a  crony  takes  your  hand 

At  parting,  to  address  you, 
He  drops  all  foreign  lingo  and 

He  says,  "Good-by — God  bless  you!" 


44  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

This  seems  to  me  a  sacred  phrase, 

With  reverence  impassioned, — 
A  thing  come  down  from  righteous  days, 

Quaintly  but  nobly  fashioned; 
It  well  becomes  an  honest  face, 

A  voice  that's  round  and  cheerful; 
It  stays  the  sturdy  in  his  place, 

And  soothes  the  weak  and  fearful. 
Into  the  porches  of  the  ears 

It  steals  with  subtle  unction, 
And  in  your  heart  of  hearts  appears 

To  work  its  gracious  function; 
And  all  day  long  with  pleasing  song 

It  lingers  to  caress  you, — 
I  'm  sure  no  human  heart  goes  wrong 

That's  told  "Good-by— God  bless  you!" 

I  love  the  words, — perhaps  because, 

When  I  was  leaving  Mother, 
Standing  at  last  in  solemn  pause 

We  looked  at  one  another, 
And  I — I  saw  in  Mother's  eyes 

The  love  she  could  not  tell  me, — 
A  love  eternal  as  the  skies, 

Whatever  fate  befell  me; 
She  put  her  arms  about  my  neck 

And  soothed  the  pain  of  leaving, 
And  though  her  heart  was  like  to  break, 

She  spoke  no  word  of  grieving; 
She  let  no  tear  bedim  her  eye, 

For  fear  that  might  distress  me, 
But,  kissing  me,  she  said  good-by, 

And  asked  our  God  to  bless  me. 


CHRYSTMASSE    OF    OLDE  45 


CHRYSTMASSE  OF  OLDE 

GOD  rest  you,  Chrysten  gentil  men, 

Wherever  you  may  be, — 
God  rest  you  all  in  fielde  or  hall, 

Or  on  ye  stormy  sea; 
For  on  this  morn  oure  Chryst  is  born 

That  saveth  you  and  me. 

Last  night  ye  shepherds  in  ye  east 
Saw  many  a  wondrous  thing; 

Ye  sky  last  night  flamed  passing  bright 
Whiles  that  ye  stars  did  sing, 

And  angels  came  to  bless  ye  name 
Of  Jesus  Chryst,  oure  Kyng. 

God  rest  you,  Chrysten  gentil  men, 

Faring  where'er  you  may; 
In  noblesse  court  do  thou  no  sport, 

In  tournament  no  playe, 
In  paynim  lands  hold  thou  thy  hands 

From  bloudy  works  this  daye. 

But  thinking  on  ye  gentil  Lord 

That  died  upon  ye  tree, 
Let  troublings  cease  and  deeds  of  peace 

Abound  in  Chrystantie; 
For  on  this  morn  ye  Chryst  is  born 

That  saveth  you  and  me. 


A  PROPER  TREWE  IDYLL  OF  CAMELOT 

WHENAS  ye  plaisaunt  Aperille  shoures  have  washed  and  purged 

awaye 

Ye  poysons  and  ye  rheums  of  earth  to  make  a  merrie  May, 
Ye  shraddy  boscage  of  ye  woods  ben  full  of  birds  that  syng 
Right  merrilie  a  madrigal  unto  ye  waking  spring, 


46  WESTERN    AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Ye  whiles  that  when  ye  face  of  earth  ben  washed  and  wiped 

ycleane 

Her  peeping  posies  blink  and  stare  like  they  had  ben  her  een ; 
Then,  wit  ye  well,  ye  harte  of  man  ben  turned  to  thoughts  of 

love, 

And,  tho'  it  ben  a  lyon  erst,  it  now  ben  like  a  dove! 
And  many  a  goodly  damosel  in  innocence  beguiles 
Her  owne  trewe  love  with  sweet  discourse  and  divers  plaisaunt 

wiles. 

In  soche  a  time  ye  noblesse  liege  that  ben  Kyng  Arthure  hight 
Let  cry  a  joust  and  tournament  for  evereche  errant  knyght, 
And,  lo!  from  distant  Joyous-garde  and  eche  adjacent  spot 
A  company  of  noblesse  lords  fared  unto  Camelot, 
Wherein  were  mighty  feastings  and  passing  merrie  cheere, 
And  eke  a  deale  of  dismal  dole,  as  you  shall  quickly  heare. 

It  so  befell  upon  a  daye  when  jousts  ben  had  and  while 

Sir  Launcelot  did  ramp  around  ye  ring  in  gallaunt  style, 

There  came  an  horseman  shriking  sore  and  rashing  wildly  home, — 

A  mediaeval  horseman  with  ye  usual  flecks  of  foame; 

And  he  did  brast  into  ye  ring,  wherein  his  horse  did  drop, 

Upon  ye  which  ye  rider  did  with  like  abruptness  stop, 

And  with  fatigue  and  fearfulness  continued  in  a  swound 

Ye  space  of  half  an  hour  or  more  before  a  leech  was  founde. 

"Now  tell  me  straight,"  quod  Launcelot,  "what  varlet   knyght 

you  be, 
Ere  that  I  chine  you  with  my  sworde  and  cleave  your  harte  in 

three!" 
Then  rolled  that  knyght  his  bloudy  een,  and  answered  with  a 

groane, — 
"By  worthy  God  that  hath  me  made  and  shope  ye  sun  arid 

mone, 

There  fareth  hence  an  evil  thing  whose  like  ben  never  scene, 
And  tho'  he  sayeth  nony  worde,  he  bodethe  ill,  I  ween. 
So  take  your  parting,  evereche  one,  and  gird  you  for  ye  fraye, — 
By   all   that  's  pure,   ye   Divell   sure   doth   trend   his   path   this 

way!" 

Ye  which  he  quoth  and  fell  again  into  a  deadly  swound, 
And  on  that  spot,  perchance  (God  wot),  his  bones  mought  yet 

be  founde. 


A    PROPER   TREWE    IDYLL   OF    CAMELOT  47 

Then  evereche  knyght  girt  on  his  sworde  and  shield  and  hied  him 

straight 

To  meet  ye  straunger  sarasen  hard  by  ye  city  gate; 
Full  sorely  moaned  ye  damosels  and  tore  their  beautyse  haire 
For  that   they   feared    an  hippogriff  wolde   come   to   eate  them 

there; 

But  as  they  moaned  and  swounded  there  too  numerous  to  relate, 
Kyng  Arthure  and  Sir  Launcelot  stode  at  ye  city  gate, 
And  at  eche  side  and  round  about  stode  many  a  noblesse  knyght 
With  helm  and  speare  and  sworde  and  shield  and  mickle  valor 

dight. 

Anon  there  came  a  straunger,  but  not  a  gyaunt  grim, 

Nor  yet  a  draggon, — but  a  person  gangling,  long,  and  slim; 

Yclad  he  was  in  guise  that  ill-beseemed  those  knyghtly  days, 

And  there  ben  nony  etiquette  in  his  uplandish  ways; 

His  raiment  was  of  dusty  gray,  and  perched  above  his  lugs 

There  ben  the  very  latest  style  of  blacke  and  shiny  pluggs; 

His  nose  ben  like  a  vulture  beake,  his  blie  ben  swart  of  hue, 

And  curly  ben  ye  whiskers  through  ye  which  ye  zephyrs  blewe; 

Of  all  ye  een  that  ben  yseene  in  countries  far  or  nigh, 

None  nony  where  colde  hold  compare  unto  that  straunger's  eye; 

It  was  an  eye  of  soche  a  kind  as  never  ben  on  sleepe, 

Nor  did  it  gleam  with  kindly  beame,  nor  did  not  use  to  weepe; 

But  soche  an  eye  ye  widdow  hath, — an  hongrey  eye  and  wan, 

That  spyeth  for  an  oder  chaunce  whereby  she  may  catch  on; 

An  eye  that  winketh  of  itself,  and  sayeth  by  that  winke 

Ye  which  a  maiden  sholde  not  knowe  nor  never  even  thinke; 

Which  winke  ben  more  exceeding  swift  nor  human  thought  ben 

thunk, 

And  leaveth  doubting  if  so  be  that  winke  ben  really  wunke; 
And  soche  an  eye  ye  catte-fysshe  hath  when  that  he  ben  on  dead 
And  boy  led  a  goodly  time  and  served  with  capers  on  his  head; 
A  rayless  eye,  a  bead-like  eye,  whose  famisht  aspect  shows 
It  hungereth  for  ye  verdant  banks  whereon  ye  wild  time  grows; 
An  eye  that  hawketh  up  and  down  for  evereche  kind  of  game, 
And,  when  he  doth  espy  ye  which,  he  tumbleth  to  ye  same. 

Now  when  he  kenned  Sir  Launcelot  in  armor  clad,  he  quod, 
"Another  put-a-nickel-in-and-see-me-work,  be  god!" 


48  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

But  when  that  he  was  ware  a  man  ben  standing  in  that  suit, 
Ye  straunger  threw  up  both  his  hands,  and  asked  him  not  to 
shoote. 

Then  spake  Kyng  Arthure:     "If  soe  be  you  mind  to  do  no  ill, 

Come,  enter  into  Camelot,  and  eat  and  drink  your  fill; 

But  say  me  first  what  you  are  hight,  and  what  mought  be  your 

quest." 

Ye  straunger  quod,  "I  'm  five  feet  ten,  and  fare  me  from  ye  West!" 
"Sir  Fivefeetten,"  Kyng  Arthure  said,  "I  bid  you  welcome  here; 
So  make  you  merrie  as  you  list  with  plaisaunt  wine  and  cheere; 
This  very  night  shall  be  a  feast  soche  like  ben  never  scene, 
And  you  shall  be  ye  honored  guest  of  Arthure  and  his  queene. 
Now  take  him,  good  sir  Maligraunce,  and  entertain  him  well 
Until  soche  time  as  he  becomes  our  guest,  as  I  you  tell." 
That  night  Kyng  Arthure's  table  round  with  mighty  care  ben 

spread, 

Ye  oder  knyghts  sate  all  about,  and  Arthure  at  ye  header 
Oh,  't  was  a  goodly  spectacle  to  ken  that  noblesse  liege 
Dispensing  hospitality  from  his  commanding  siege! 
Ye  pheasant  and  ye  meate  of  boare,  ye  haunch  of  velvet  doe, 
Ye  canvass  hamme  he  them  did  serve,  and  many  good  things 

moe. 

Until  at  last  Kyng  Arthure  cried:     "Let  bring  my  wassail  cup, 
And  let  ye  sound  of  joy  go  round, — I  'm  going  to  set  'em  up ! 
I  've  pipes  of  Malmsey,  May-wine,  sack,  metheglon,  mead,  and 

sherry, 

Canary,  Malvoisie,  and  Port,  swete  Muscadelle  and  perry; 
Rochelle,  Osey,  and  Romenay,  Tyre,  Rhenish,  posset  too, 
With  kags  and  pails  of  foaming  ales  of  brown  October  brew. 
To  wine  and  beer  and  other  cheere  I  pray  you  now  despatch  ye, 
And  for  ensample,  wit  ye  well,  sweet  sirs,  I  'm  looking  at  ye!" 

Unto  which  toast  of  their  liege  lord  ye  oders  in  ye  party 

Did  lout  them  low  in  humble  wise  and  bid  ye  same  drink  hearty. 

So  then  ben  merrisome  discourse  and  passing  plaisaunt  cheere, 

And  Arthure's  tales  of  hippogriffs  ben  mervaillous  to  heare; 

But  straunger  far  than  any  tale  told  of  those  knyghts  of  old 

Ben  those  facetious  narratives  ye  Western  straunger  told. 

He  told  them  of  a  country  many  leagues  beyond  ye  sea 


A   PROPER   TREWE   IDYLL   OF   CAMELOT  49 

Where  evereche  forraine  nuisance  but  ye  Chinese  man  ben  free, 
And  whiles  he  span  his  monstrous  yarns,  ye  ladies  of  ye  court 
Did  deem  ye  listening  thereunto  to  be  right  plaisaunt  sport; 
And  whiles  they  listened,  often  he  did  squeeze  a  lily  hande, — 
Ye  which  proceeding  ne'er  before  ben  done  in  Arthure's  lande; 
And  often  wank  a  sidelong  wink  with  either  roving  eye, 
Whereat  ye  ladies  laughen  so  that  they  had  like  to  die. 
But  of  ye  damosels  that  sat  around  Kyng  Arthure's  table 
He  liked  not  her  that  sometime  ben  ron  over  by  ye  cable, 
Ye  which  full  evil  hap  had  harmed  and  marked  her  person  so 
That  in  a  passing  wittie  jest  he  dubbeth  her  ye  crow. 

But  all  ye  oders  of  ye  girls  did  please  him  passing  well 

And  they  did  own  him  for  to  be  a  proper  seeming  swell; 

And  in  especial  Guinevere  esteemed  him  wondrous  faire, 

Which  had  made  Arthure  and  his  friend,  Sir  Launcelot,  to  sware 

But  that  they  both  ben  so  far  gone  with  posset,  wine,  and  beer, 

They  colde  not  see  ye  carrying-on,  nor  neither  colde  not  heare; 

For  of  eche  liquor  Arthure  quafft,  and  so  did  all  ye  rest, 

Save  only  and  excepting  that  smooth  straunger  from  the  West. 

When  as  these  oders  drank  a  toast,  he  let  them  have  their  fun 

With  divers  godless  mixings,  but  he  stock  to  willow  run, 

Ye  which   (and  all  that  reade  these  words  sholde  profit  by  ye 

warning) 

Doth  never  make  ye  head  to  feel  like  it  ben  swelled  next  morning. 
Now,  wit  ye  well,  it  so  befell  that  when  the  night  grew  dim, 
Ye  Kyng  was  carried  from  ye  hall  with  a  howling  jag  on  him, 
Whiles  Launcelot  and  all  ye  rest  that  to  his  highness  toadied 
Withdrew  them  from  ye  banquet-hall  and  sought  their  couches 

loaded. 

Now,  lithe  and  listen,  lordings  all,  whiles  I  do  call  it  shame 

That,  making  cheer  with  wine  and  beer,  men  do  abuse  ye  same; 

Though  eche  be  well  enow  alone,  ye  mixing  of  ye  two 

Ben  soche  a  piece  of  foolishness  as  only  ejiots  do. 

Ye  wine  is  plaisaunt  bibbing  whenas  ye  gentles  dine, 

And  beer  will  do  if  one  hath  not  ye  wherewithal  for  wine, 

But  in  ye  drinking  of  ye  same  ye  wise  are  never  floored 

By  taking  what  ye  tipplers  call  too  big  a  jag  on  board. 

Right  hejeous  isit  for  to  see  soche  dronkonness  0f  wine 


50  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Whereby  some  men  are  used  to  make  themselves  to  be  like  swine; 
And  sorely  it  repenteth  them,  for  when  they  wake  next  day 
Ye  fearful  paynes  they  suffer  ben  soche  as  none  mought  say, 
And  soche  ye  brenning  in  ye  throat  and  brasting  of  ye  head 
And  soche  ye  taste  within  ye  mouth  like  one  had  ben  on  dead, — 
Soche  be  ye  foul  condicions  that  these  unhappy  men 
Sware  they  will  never  drink  no  drop  of  nony  drinke  again. 
Yet  all  so  frail  and  vain  a  thing  and  weak  withal  is  man 
That  he  goeth  on  an  oder  tear  whenever  that  he  can. 
And  like  ye  evil  quatern  or  ye  hills  that  skirt  ye  skies, 
Ye  jag  is  reproductive  and  jags  on  jags  arise. 

Whenas  Aurora  from  ye  east  in  dewy  splendor  hied 
Kyng  Arthure  dreemed  he  saw  a  snaix  and  ben  on  fire  inside, 
And  waking  from  this  hejeous  dreeme  he  sate  him  up  in  bed, — 
"What,  ho!  an  absynthe  cocktail,  knave!  and  make  it  strong!"   he 

said; 

Then,  looking  down  beside  him,  lo!   his  lady  was  not  there — 
He  called,  he  searched,  but,  Goddis  wounds!  he  found  her  nony- 

where; 
And  whiles  he  searched,  Sir  Maligraunce  rashed  in,  wood  wroth, 

and  cried, 

"Methinketh  that  ye  straunger  knyght  hath  snuck  away  my  bride!" 
And  whiles  he  spake  a  motley  score  of  other  knyghts  brast  in 
And  filled  ye  royall  chamber  with  a  mickle  fearful  din, 
For  evereche  one  had  lost  his  wiffe  nor  colde  nor  spye  ye  same, 
Nor  colde  not  spye  ye  straunger  knyght,  Sir  Fivefeetten  of  name. 

Oh,  then  and  there  was  grevious  lamentation  all  arounde, 
For  nony  dame  nor  damosel  in  Camelot  ben  found, — 
Gone,  like  ye  forest  leaves  that  speed  afore  ye  autumn  wind. 
Of  all  ye  ladies  of  that  court  not  one  ben  left  behind 
Save  only  that  same  damosel  ye  straunger  called  ye  crow, 
And  she  allowed  with  moche  regret  she  ben  too  lame  to  go; 
And  when  that  she  had  wept  full  sore,  to  Arthure  she  confess'd 
That  Guinevere  had  left  this  word  for  Arthure  and  ye  rest: 
"Tell  them,"  she  quod,  "we  shall  return  to  them  whenas  we  've 

made 
This  little  deal  we  have  with  ye  Chicago  Bourde  of  Trade." 


_5* 


IN    FLANDERS  51 


IN  FLANDERS 

THROUGH  sleet  and  fogs  to  the  saline  bogs 
Where  the  herring  fish  meanders, 

An  army  sped,  and  then,  't  is  said, 
Swore  terribly  in  Flanders: 

« I" 


A  hideous  store  of  oaths  they  swore, 
Did  the  army  over  in  Flanders! 


At  this  distant  day  we  're  unable  to  say 

What  so  aroused  their  danders; 
But  it 's  doubtless  the  case,  to  their  lasting  disgrace, 

That  the  army  swore  in  Flanders: 


And  many  more  such  oaths  they  swore, 
Did  that  impious  horde  in  Flanders! 

Some  folks  contend  that  these  oaths  without  end 

Began  among  the  commanders, 
That,  taking  this  cue,  the  subordinates,  too, 

Swore  terribly  in  Flanders: 

'Twas" !" 


Why,  the  air  was  blue  with  the  hullaballoo 
Of  those  wicked  men  in  Flanders! 


But  some  suppose  that  the  trouble  arose 
With  a  certain  Corporal  Sanders, 

Who  sought  to  abuse  the  wooden  shoes 
That  the  natives  wore  in  Flanders. 
Saying:" -I" 


What  marvel  then,  that  the  other  men 
Felt  encouraged  to  swear  in  Flanders! 


«• 

••* 


52  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

At  any  rate,  as  I  grieve  to  state, 

Since  these  soldiers  vented  their  danders 

Conjectures  obtain  that  for  language  profane 
There  is  no  such  place  as  Flanders. 


This  is  the  kind  of  talk  you  '11  find 
If  you  ever  go  to  Flanders. 

How  wretched  is  he,  wherever  he  be, 
That  unto  this  habit  panders! 

And  how  glad  am  I  that  my  interests  lie 
In  Chicago,  and  not  in  Flanders! 


Would  never  go  down  in  this  circumspect  town       / 
However  it  might  in  Flanders. 


OUR  BIGGEST  FISH 

WHEN  in  the  halcyon  days  of  eld,  I  was  a  little  tyke, 
I  used  to  fish  in  pickerel  ponds  for  minnows  and  the  like; 
And  oh,  the  bitter  sadness  with  which  my  soul  was  fraught 
When  I  rambled  home    at   nightfall   with    the    puny    string    I  'd 

caught ! 

And,  oh,  the  indignation  and  the  valor  I  'd  display 
When  I  claimed  that  all  the  biggest  fish  I  'd  caught  had  got  away! 

Sometimes  it  was  the  rusty  hooks,  sometimes  the  fragile  lines, 

And  many  times  the  treacherous  reeds  would  foil  my  just  designs; 

But  whether  hooks  or  lines  or  reeds  were  actually  to  blame, 

I  kept  right  on  at  losing  all  the  monsters  just  the  same — 

I  never  lost  a  little  fish — yes,  I  am  free  to  say 

It  always  was  the  biggest  fish  I  caught  that  got  away. 

And  so  it  was,  when  later  on,  I  felt  ambition  pass 

From  callow  minnow  joys  to  nobler  greed  for  pike  and  bass; 

I  found  it  quite  convenient,  when  the  beauties  would  n't  bite 


THIRTY-NINE  53 

And  I  returned  all  bootless  from  the  watery  chase  at  night, 

To  feign  a  cheery  aspect  and  recount  in  accents  gay 

How  the  biggest  fish  that  I  had  caught  had  somehow  got  away. 

And  really,  fish  look  bigger  than  they  are  before  they  're  caught— 
When  the  pole  is  bent  into  a  bow  and  the  slender  line  is  taut, 
When  a  fellow  feels  his  heart  rise  up  like  a  doughnut  in  his  throat 
And  he  lunges  in  a  frenzy  up  and  down  the  leaky  boat! 
Oh,  you  who've  been  a-fishing  will  indorse  me  when  I  say 
That  it  always  is  the  biggest  fish  you  catch  that  gets  away! 

'T  'is  even  so  in  other  things — yes,  in  our  greedy  eyes 
The  biggest  boon  is  some  elusive,  never-captured  prize; 
We  angle  for  the  honors  and  the  sweets  of  human  life — 
Like  fishermen  we  brave  the  seas  that  roll  in  endless  strife; 
And  then  at  last,  when  all  is  done  and  we  are  spent  and  gray, 
We  own  the  biggest  fish  we  've  caught  are  those  that  got  away. 

I  would  not  have  it  otherwise;   't  is  better  there  should  be 
Much  bigger  fish  than  I  have  caught  a-swimming  in  the  sea; 
For  now  some  worthier  one  than  I  may  angle  for  that  game — 
May  by  his  arts  entice,  entrap,  and  comprehend  the  same; 
Which,  having  done,  perchance  he  '11  bless  the  man  who  's  proud 

to  say 
That  the  biggest  fish  he  ever  caught  were  those  that  got  away. 


THIRTY-NINE 

O  HAPLESS  day!     O  wretched  day! 

I  hoped  you  'd  pass  me  by — 
Alas,  the  years  have  sneaked  away 

And  all  is  changed  but  I! 
Had  I  the  power,  I  would  remand 

You  to  a  gloom  condign, 
But  here  you  've  crept  upon  me  and 

I — I  am  thirty-nine! 


54  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Now,  were  I  thirty-five,  I  could 

Assume  a  flippant  guise; 
Or,  were  I  forty  years,  I  should 

Undoubtedly  look  wise; 
For  forty  years  are  said  to  bring 

Sedateness  superfine; 
But  thirty-nine  don't  mean  a  thing — 

A  bas  with  thirty-nine! 

You  healthy,  hulking  girls  and  boys, — 

What  makes  you  grow  so  fast? 
Oh,  I  '11  survive  your  lusty  noise — 

I  'm  tough  and  bound  to  last! 
No,  no — I  'm  old  and  withered  too — 

I  feel  my  powers  decline 
(Yet  none  believes  this  can  be  true 

Of  one  at  thirty-nine). 

And  you,  dear  girl  with  velvet  eyes, 

I  wonder  what  you  mean 
Through  all  our  keen  anxieties 

By  keeping  sweet  sixteen. 
With  your  dear  love  to  warm  my  heart, 

Wretch  were  I  to  repine; 
I  was  but  jesting  at  the  start — 

I  'm  glad  I  'm  thirty-nine! 

So,  little  children,  roar  and  race 

As  blithely  as  you  can, 
And,  sweetheart,  let  your  tender  grace 

Exalt  the  Day  and  Man; 
For  then  these  factors  (I  '11  engage) 

All  subtly  shall  combine 
To  make  both  juvenile  and  sage 

The  one  who's  thirty-nine! 

Yes,  after  all,  I  'm  free  to  say 

I  would  much  rather  be 
Standing  as  I  do  stand  to-day, 

'Twixt  devil  and  deep  sea; 


YVYTOT  55 

For  though  my  face  be  dark  with  care 

Or  with  a  grimace  shine, 
Each  haply  falls  unto  my  share, 

For  I  am  thirty-nine! 

'T  is  passing  meet  to  make  good  cheer 

And  lord  it  like  a  king, 
Since  only  once  we  catch  the  year 

That  does  n't  mean  a  thing. 
O  happy  day!   O  gracious  day! 

I  pledge  thee  in  this  wine — 
Come,  let  us  journey  on  our  way 

A  year,  good  Thirty-Nine! 

Sept.  2,  1889 


YVYTOT 

Where  wail  the  waters  in  their  flow 
A  spectre  wanders  to  and  fro, 

And  evermore  that  ghostly  shore 
Bemoans  the  heir  of  Yvytot. 

Sometimes,  when,  like  a  fleecy  pall, 
The  mists  upon  the  waters  fall, 

Across  the  main  float  shadows  twain 
That  do  not  heed  the  spectre's  call. 

The  king  his  son  of  Yvytot 
Stood  once  and  saw  the  waters  go 

Boiling  around  with  hissing  sound 
The  sullen  phantom  rocks  below. 

And  suddenly  he  saw  a  face 

Lift  from  that  black  and  seething  place 

Lift  up  and  gaze  in  mute  amaze 
And  tenderly  a  little  space, 


56  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

A  mighty  cry  of  love  made  he — 
No  answering  word  to  him  gave  she, 

But  looked,  and  then  sunk  back  again 
Into  the  dark  and  depthless  sea. 

And  ever  afterward  that  face, 
That  he  beheld  such  little  space, 

Like  wraith  would  rise  within  his  eyes 
And  in  his  heart  find  biding  place. 

So  oft  from  castle  hall  he  crept 

Where  mid  the  rocks  grim  shadows  slept, 

And  where  the  mist  reached  down  and  kissed 
The  waters  as  they  wailed  and  wept. 

The  king  it  was  of  Yvytot 
That  vaunted,  many  years  ago, 

There  was  no  coast  his  valiant  host 
Had  not  subdued  with  spears  and  bow. 

For  once  to  him  the  sea-king  cried: 
"In  safety  all  thy  ships  shall  ride 

An  thou  but  swear  thy  princely  heir 
Shall  take  my  daughter  to  his  bride. 

"And  lo,  these  winds  that  rove  the  sea 
Unto  our  pact  shall  witness  be, 

And  of  the  oath  which  binds  us  both 
Shall  be  the  judge  'twixt  me  and  thee!" 

Then  swore  the  king  of  Yvytot 
Unto  the  sea-king  years  ago, 

And  with  great  cheer  for  many  a  year 
His  ships  went  harrying  to  and  fro. 

Unto  this  mighty  king  his  throne 
Was  born  a  prince,  and  one  alone — 

Fairer  than  he  in  form  and  blee 
And  knightly  grace  was  never  known. 


YVYTOT  57 

But  once  he  saw  a  maiden  face 
Lift  from  a  haunted  ocean  place — 
Lift  up  and  gaze  in  mute  amaze 
And  tenderly  a  little  space. 

Wroth  was  the  king  of  Yvytot, 
For  that  his  son  would  never  go 

Sailing  the  sea,  but  liefer  be 
Where  wailed  the  waters  in  their  flow, 

Where  winds  in  clamorous  anger  swept, 
Where  to  and  fro  grim  shadows  crept, 

And  where  the  mist  reached  down  and  kissed 
The  waters  as  they  wailed  and  wept. 

So  sped  the  years,  till  came  a  day 
The  haughty  king  was  old  and  gray, 
And  in  his  hold  were  spoils  untold 
That  he  had  wrenched  from  Norroway. 

Then  once  again  the  sea-king  cried: 
"Thy  ships  have  harried  far  and  wide; 

My  part  is  done — now  let  thy  son 
Require  my  daughter  to  his  bride!" 

Loud  laughed  the  king  of  Yvytot, 
And  by  his  soul  he  bade  him  no — 

"I  heed  no  more  what  oath  I  swore, 
For  I  was  mad  to  bargain  so!" 

Then  spake  the  sea-king  in  his  wrath: 
"Thy  ships  lie  broken  in  my  path! 

Go  now  and  wring  thy  hands,  false  king  I 
Nor  ship  nor  heir  thy  kingdom  hath! 

"And  thou  shalt  wander  evermore 
All  up  and  down  this  ghostly  shore, 

And  call  in  vain  upon  the  twain 
That  keep  what  oath  a  dastard  swore!" 


58  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

The  king  his  son  of  Yvytot 
Stood  even  then  where  to  and  fro 

The  breakers  swelled — and  there  beheld 
A  maiden  face  lift  from  below. 

"Be  thou  or  truth  or  dream/'  he  cried, 
"Or  spirit  of  the  restless  tide, 

It  booteth  not  to  me,  God  wot! 
But  I  would  have  thee  to  my  bride." 

Then  spake  the  maiden:  "Come  with  me 
Unto  a  palace  in  the  sea, 

For  there  my  sire  in  kingly  ire 
Requires  thy  king  his  oath  of  thee!" 

/ 

Gayly  he  fared  him  down  the  sands 
And  took  the  maiden's  outstretched  hands; 

And  so  went  they  upon  their  way 
To  do  the  sea-king  his  commands. 

The  winds  went  riding  to  and  fro 

And  scourged  the  waves  that  crouched  below, 

And  bade  them  sing  to  a  childless  king 
The  bridal  song  of  Yvytot. 

So  fell  the  curse  upon  that  shore, 
And  hopeless  wailing  evermore 

Was  the  righteous  dole  of  the  craven  soul 
That  heeded  not  what  oath  he  swore. 

An  hundred  ships  went  down  that  day 
All  off  the  coast  of  Norroway, 

And  the  ruthless  sea  made  mighty  glee 
Over  the  spoil  that  drifting  lay. 

The  winds  went  calling  far  and  wide 
To  the  dead  that  tossed  in  the  mocking  tide: 
"Come  forth,  ye  slaves!  from  your  fleeting  graves 
And  drink  a  health  to  your  prince  his  bride!" 


TO    A   SOUBRETTE  59 

Where  wail  the  waters  in  their  flow 
A  spectre  wanders  to  and  fro, 

But  nevermore  that  ghostly  shore 
Shall  claim  the  heir  of  Yvytot. 

Sometimes,  when,  like  a  fleecy  pall, 
The  mists  upon  the  waters  fall, 

Across  the  main  flit  shadows  twain 
That  do  not  heed  the  spectre's  call. 


TO  A  SOUBRETTE 

'Tis  years,  soubrette,  since  last  we  met; 

And  yet — ah,  yet,  how  swift  and  tender 
My  thoughts  go  back  in  time's  dull  track 

To  you,  sweet  pink  of  female  gender! 
I  shall  not  say — though  others  may — 

That  time  all  human  joy  enhances; 
But  the  same  old  thrill  comes  to  me  still 

With  memories  of  your  songs  and  dances. 

Soubrettish  ways  these  latter  days 

Invite  my  praise,  but  never  get  it; 
I  still  am  true  to  yours  and  you — 

My  record's  made,  I  '11  not  upset  it! 
The  pranks  they  play,  the  things  they  say — 

I  'd  blush  to  put  the  like  on  paper, 
And  I  '11  avow  they  don't  know  how 

To  dance,  so  awkwardly  they  caper! 

I  used  to  sit  down  in  the  pit 

And  see  you  flit  like  elf  or  fairy 
Across  the  stage,  and  I  '11  engage 

No  moonbeam  sprite  was  half  so  airy; 
Lo,  everywhere  about  me  there 

Were  rivals  reeking  with  pomatum, 
And  if,  perchance,  they  caught  your  glance 

In  song  or  dance,  how  did  I  hate  'em! 


60  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

At  half-past  ten  came  rapture — then 

Of  all  those  men  was  I  most  happy. 
For  bottled  beer  and  royal  cheer 

And  tetes-a-tetes  were  on  the  tapis. 
Do  you  forget,  my  fair  soubrette, 

Those  suppers  at  the  Cafe  Rector, — 
The  cosey  nook  where  we  partook 

Of  sweeter  cheer  than  fabled  nectar? 

Oh,  happy  days,  when  youth's  wild  ways 

Knew  every  phase  of  harmless  folly! 
Oh,  blissful  nights,  whose  fierce  delights 

Defied  gaunt-featured  Melancholy! 
Gone  are  they  all  beyond  recall, 

And  I — a  shade,  a  mere  reflection — 
Am  forced  to  feed  my  spirit's  greed 

Upon  the  husks  of  retrospection! 

And  lo!   to-night,  the  phantom  light, 

That,  as  a  sprite,  flits  on  the  fender, 
Reveals  a  face  whose  girlish  grace 

Brings  back  the  feeling,  warm  and  tender; 
And,  all  the  while,  the  old-time  smile 

Plays  on  my  visage,  grim  and  wrinkled,— 
As  though,  soubrette,  your  footfalls  yet 

Upon  my  rusty  heart-strings  tinkled! 


DEDICATION  TO   "SECOND  BOOK  OF  VERSE" 

A  LITTLE  bit  of  a  woman  came 

Athwart  my  path  one  day; 
So  tiny  was  she  that  she  seemed  to  be 
A  pixy  strayed  from  the  misty  sea, 

Or  a  wandering  greenwood  fay. 

"Oho,  you  little  elf!"  I  cried, 

"And  what  are  you  doing  here? 


DEDICATION   TO    "SECOND    BOOK    OF   VERSE"  61 

So  tiny  as  you  will  never  do 
For  the  brutal  rush  and  hullaballoo 
Of  this  practical  world,  I  fear." 

"Voice  have  I,  good  sir/'  said  she. — 

"  'T  is  soft  as  an  Angel's  sigh, 
But  to  fancy  a  word  of  yours  were  heard 
In  all  the  din  of  this  world  's  absurd!" 

Smiling,  I  made  reply. 

"Hands  have  I,  good  sir,"  she  quoth. — 

"Marry,  and  that  have  you! 
But  amid  the  strife  and  the  tumult  rife 
In  all  the  struggle  and  battle  for  life, 

What  can  those  wee  hands  do?" 

"Eyes  have  I,  good  sir,"  she  said. — 

"Sooth,  you  have,"  quoth  I, 
"And  tears  shall  flow  therefrom,  I  trow, 
And  they  betimes  shall  dim  with  woe, 

As  the  hard,  hard  years  go  by!" 

That  little  bit  of  a  woman  cast 

Her  two  eyes  full  on  me, 
And  they  smote  me  sore  to  my  inmost  core, 
And  they  hold  me  slaved  forevermore, — 

Yet  would  I  not  be  free! 

That  little  bit  of  a  woman's  hands 

Reached  up  into  my  breast, 
And  rent  apart  my  scoffing  heart, — 
And  they  buffet  it  still  with  such  sweet  art 

As  cannot  be  expressed. 

That  little  bit  of  a  woman's  voice 

Hath  grown  most  wondrous  dear; 

Above  the  blare  of  all  elsewhere 

(An  inspiration  that  mocks  at  care) 
It  riseth  full  and  clear. 


62 


WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Dear  one,  I  bless  the  subtle  power 
That  makes  me  wholly  thine; 
And  I  'm  proud  to  say  that  I  bless  the  day 
When  a  little  woman  wrought  her  way 
Into  this  life  of  mine! 


FATHER'S  WAY 

MY  father  was  no  pessimist;   he  loved  the  things  of  earth, — 

Its  cheerfulness  and  sunshine,  its  music  and  its  mirth. 

He  never  sighed  or  moped  around  whenever  things  went  wrong, — 

I  warrant  me  he  'd  mocked  at  fate  with  some  defiant  song; 

But,  being  he  war  n't  much  on  tune,  when  times  looked  sort  o* 

blue, 
He  'd  whistle  softly  to  himself  this  only  tune  he  knew, — 


Now  mother,  when  she  heard  that  tune  which  father  whistled  so, 
Would  say,   "There 's  something  wrong  to-day  with  Ephraim, 

I  know; 

He  never  tries  to  make  believe  he  's  happy  that  'ere  way 
But  that  I  'm  certain  as  can  be  there  's  somethin'  wrong  to  pay." 
And  so  betimes,  quite  natural-like,  to  us  observant  youth 
There  seemed  suggestion  in  that  tune  of  deep,  pathetic  truth. 

When  Brother  William  joined  the  war,  a  lot  of  us  went  down 
To  see  the  gallant  soldier  boys  right  gayly  out  of  town. 
A-comin'  home,  poor  mother  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break, 
And  all  us  children,  too, — for  hers,  and  not  for  William's  sake! 
But  father,  trudgin'  on  ahead,  his  hands  behind  him  so, 
Kept  whistlin'  to  himself,  so  sort  of  solemn-like  and  low. 

And  when  my  oldest  sister,  Sue,  was  married  and  went  West, 
Seemed  like  it  took  the  tuck  right  out  of  mother  and  the  rest. 
She  was  the  sunlight  in  our  home, — why,  father  used  to  say 


TO   MY   MOTHER  63 

It  would  n't  seem  like  home  at  all  if  Sue  should  go  away; 

But  when  she  went,  a-leavin'  us  all  sorrer  and  all  tears, 

Poor  father  whistled  lonesome-like — and  went  to  feed  the  steers. 


When  crops  were  bad,  and  other  ills  befell  our  homely  lot, 

He'd  set  of  nights  and  try  to  act  as  if  he  minded  not; 

And  when  came  death  and  bore  away  the  one  he  worshipped  so, 

How  vainly  did  his  lips  belie  the  heart  benumbed  with  woe ! 

You  see  the  telltale  whistle  told  a  mood  he'd  not  admit, — 

He'd  always  stopped  his  whistlin'  when  he  thought  we  noticed  it. 

I  'd  like  to  see  that  stooping  form  and  hoary  head  again, — 
To  see  the  honest,  hearty  smile  that  cheered  his  fellow-men. 
Oh,  could  I  kiss  the  kindly  lips  that  spake  no  creature  wrong, 
And  share  the  rapture  of  the  heart  that  overflowed  with  song! 
Oh,  could  I  hear  the  little  tune  he  whistled  long  ago, 
When  he  did  battle  with  the  griefs  he  would  not  have  us  know! 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

How  fair  you  are,  my  mother! 

Ah,  though  '  tis  many  a  year 

Since  you  were  here, 
Still  do  I  see  your  beauteous  face, 

And  with  the  glow 
Of  your  dark  eyes  cometh  a  grace 

Of  long  ago. 
So  gentle,  too,  my  mother! 

Just  as  of  old,  upon  my  brow, 

Like  benedictions  now, 
Falleth  your  dear  hand's  touch; 

And  still,  as  then, 
A  voice  that  glads  me  overmuch 

Cometh  again, 
My  fair  and  gentle  mother! 


64  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

How  you  have  loved  me,  mother, 

I  have  not  power  to  tell, 

Knowing  full  well 
That  even  in  the  rest  above 

It  is  your  will 
To  watch  and  guard  me  with  your  love,, 

Loving  me  still. 
And,  as  of  old,  my  mother, 

I  am  content  to  be  a  child, 

By  mother's  love  beguiled 
From  all  these  other  charms; 

So  to  the  last 
Within  thy  dear,  protecting  arms 

Hold  thou  me  fast, 
My  guardian  angel,  mother! 


A  VALENTINE  TO  MY  WIFE 

ACCEPT,  dear  girl,  this  little  token, 
And  if  between  the  lines  you  seek, 

You  '11  find  the  love  I  've  often  spoken— 
The  love  my  dying  lips  shall  speak. 

Our  little  ones  are  making  merry 
O'er  am'rous  ditties  rhymed  in  jest, 

But  in  these  words  (though  awkward — very^ 
The  genuine  article  's  expressed. 

You  are  as  fair  and  sweet  and  tender, 
Dear  brown-eyed  little  sweetheart  mine, 

As  when,  a  callow  youth  and  slender, 
I  asked  to  be  your  Valentine. 

What  though  these  years  of  ours  be  fleeting  ? 

What  though  the  years  of  youth  be  flown  ? 
I  '11  mock  old  Tempus  with  repeating, 

"I  love  my  love  and  her  alone!" 


GOSLING   STEW  65 

And  when  I  fall  before  his  reaping, 

And  when  my  stuttering  speech  is  dumb, 

Think  not  my  love  is  dead  or  sleeping, 
But  that  it  waits  for  you  to  come. 

So  take,  dear  love,  this  little  token, 

And  if  there  speaks  in  any  line 
The  sentiment  I  'd  fain  have  spoken, 

Say,  will  you  kiss  your  Valentine  ? 


GOSLING  STEW 

IN  Oberhausen,  on  a  time, 

I  fared  as  might  a  king; 
And  now  I  feel  the  muse  sublime 
Inspire  me  to  embalm  in  rhyme 

That  succulent  and  sapid  thing 
Behight  of  gentile  and  of  Jew 
A  gosling  stew! 

The  good  Herr  Schmitz  brought  out  his  best,- 

Soup,  cutlet,  salad,  roast, — 
And  I  partook  with  hearty  zest, 
And  fervently  anon  I  blessed 

That  generous  and  benignant  host, 
When  suddenly  dawned  on  my  view 
A  gosling  stew! 

I  sniffed  it  coming  on  apace, 

And  as  its  odors  rilled 
The  curious  little  dining-place, 
I  felt  a  glow  suffuse  my  face, 

I  felt  my  very  marrow  thrilled 
With  rapture  altogether  new, — 
'T  was  gosling  stew! 


66  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

These  callow  birds  had  never  played 
In  yonder  village  pond; 

Had  never  through  the  gateway  strayed^, 

And  plaintive  spissant  music  made 
Upon  the  grassy  green  beyond: 

Cooped  up,  they  simply  ate  and  grew 
For  gosling  stew! 

My  doctor  said  I  must  n't  eat 

High  food  and  seasoned  game; 

But  surely  gosling  is  a  meat 

With  tender  nourishment  replete. 
Leastwise  I  gayly  ate  this  same; 

I  braved  dyspepsy — would  n't  you 
For  gosling  stew  ? 

I  Ve  feasted  where  the  possums  grow, 
Roast  turkey  have  I  tried, 

The  joys  of  canvasbacks  I  know, 

And  frequently  I  've  eaten  crow 

In  bleak  and  chill  November-tide; 

I  'd  barter  all  that  native  crew 
For  gosling  stew! 

And  when  from  Rhineland  I  adjourn 

To  seek  my  Yankee  shore, 
Back  shall  my  memory  often  turn, 
And  fiercely  shall  my  palate  burn 

For  sweets  I  '11  taste,  alas!   no  more,— 
Oh,  that  mein  kleine  frau  could  brew 
A  gosling  stew! 

Vain  are  these  keen  regrets  of  mine, 
And  vain  the  song  I  sing; 

Yet  would  I  quaff  a  stoup  of  wine 

To  Oberhausen  auf  der  Rhine, 

Where  fared  I  like  a  very  king: 

And  here  's  a  last  and  fond  adieu 
To  gosling  stew! 


JOHN   SMITH  67 


JOHN  SMITH 

TO-DAY  I  strayed  in  Charing  Cross,  as  wretched  as  could  be, 
With  thinking  of  my  home  and  friends  across  the  tumbling  sea; 
There  was  no  water  in  my  eyes,  but  my  spirits  were  depressed, 
And  my  heart  lay  like  a  sodden,  soggy  doughnut  in  my  breast. 
This  way  and  that  streamed  multitudes,  that  gayly  passed  me  by; 
Not  one  in  all  the  crowd  knew  me,  and  not  a  one  knew  I. 
"Oh  for  a  touch  of  home!"    I  sighed;    "oh  for  a  friendly  face! 
Oh  for  a  hearty  hand-clasp  in  this  teeming,  desert  place!" 
And  so  soliloquizing,  as  a  homesick  creature  will, 
Incontinent,  I  wandered  down  the  noisy,  bustling  hill, 
And  drifted,  automatic-like  and  vaguely,  into  Lowe's, 
Where  Fortune  had  in  store  a  panacea  for  my  woes. 
The  register  was  open,  and  there  dawned  upon  my  sight 
A  name  that  filled  and  thrilled  me  with  a  cyclone  of  delight, — 
The  name  that  I  shall  venerate  unto  my  dying  day, 
The  proud,  immortal  signature:     "John  Smith,  U.  S.  A." 

Wildly  I  clutched  the  register,  and  brooded  on  that  name; 

I  knew  John  Smith,  yet  could  not  well  identify  the  same. 

I  knew  him  North,  I  knew  him  South,  I  knew  him  East  and  West: 

I  knew  him  all  so  well  I  knew  not  which  I  knew  the  best. 

His  eyes,  I  recollect,  were  gray,  and  black,  and  brown,  and  blue; 

And  when  he  was  not  bald,  his  hair  was  of  chameleon  hue; 

Lean,  fat,  tall,  short,  rich,  poor,  grave,  gay,  a  blonde  and  a  bru 
nette,— 

Aha,  amid  this  London  fog,  John  Smith,  I  see  you  yet! 

I  see  you  yet;   and  yet  the  sight  is  all  so  blurred  I  seem 

To  see  you  in  composite,  or  as  in  a  waking  dream. 

Which  are  you,  John  ?  I  'd  like  to  know,  that  I  might  weave  a 
rhyme 

Appropriate  to  your  character,  your  politics,  and  clime. 

So  tell  me,  were  you  "raised"  or  "reared"  ?  your  pedigree  confess 

In  some  such  treacherous  ism  as  "I  reckon"  or  "I  guess." 

Let  fall  your  telltale  dialect,  that  instantly  I  may 

Identify  my  countryman,  "John  Smith,  U.  S.  A." 


68  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

It 's  like  as  not  you  air  the  John  that  lived  a  spell  ago 

Deown  East,  where  codfish,  beans,   'nd   bona-fide  schoolma'ams 

grow; 
Where  the  dear  old  homestead  nestles  like  among  the  Hampshire 

hills, 

And  where  the  robin  hops  about  the  cherry-boughs,  'nd  trills; 
Where  Hubbard  squash  'nd  huckleberries  grow  to  powerful  size, 
And  everything  is  orthodox  from  preachers  down  to  pies; 
Where  the  red-wing  blackbirds  swing  'nd  call  beside  the  pick'rft 

pond, 

And  the  crows  air  cawin'  in  the  pines  uv  the  pasture  lot  beyond ; 
Where  folks  complain  uv  bein'  poor,  because  their  money's  lent 
Out  West  on  farms  'nd  railroads  at  the  rate  uv  ten  per  cent; 
Where   we   ust    to   spark  the   Baker  girls   a-comin'   home   from 

choir, 

Or  a-settin'  namin'  apples  round  the  roarin,  kitchen  fire; 
Where  we  had  to  go  to  meetin'  at  least  three  times  a  week, 
And  our  mothers  learnt  us  good  religious  Dr.  Watts  to  speak; 
And  where  our  grandmas  sleep  their  sleep — God  rest  their  souls, 

I  say; 
And  God  bless  yours,  ef  you  're  that  John,  "  John  Smith,  U.  S.  A." 

Or,  mebbe,  Col.  Smith,  yo'  are  the  gentleman  I  know 

In  the  country  whar  the  finest  Democrats  'nd  bosses  grow ; 

Whar  the  ladies  are  all  beautiful,  an'  whar  the  crap  of  cawn 

Is  utilized  for  Burbon,  and  true  awters  are  bawn. 

You  've  ren  for  jedge,  and  killed  yore  man,  and  bet  on  Proctor 

Knott; 

Yore  heart  is  full  of  chivalry,  yore  skin  is  full  of  shot; 
And  I  disremember  whar  I  've  met  with  gentlemen  so  true 
As  yo'  all  in  Kaintucky,  whar  blood  an'  grass  are  blue, 
Whar  a  niggah  with  a  ballot  is  the  signal  fo'  a  fight, 
Whar  the  yaller  dawg  pursues  the  coon  throughout  the  bammy 

night, 

Whar  blooms  the  furtive  possum, — pride  an'  glory  of  the  South"! 
And  aunty  makes  a  hoe-cake,  sah,  that  melts  within  yo'  mouth, 
Whar  all  night  long  the  mockin'-birds  are  warblin'  in  the  trees, 
And  black-eyed  Susans  nod  and  blink  at  every  passing  breeze, 
Whar  in  a  hallowed  soil  repose  the  ashes  of  our  Clay, — 
H'yar  's  lookin'  at  yo',  Col.  "John  Smith,  U.  S.  A." 


JOHN   SMITH  69 

Or  wuz  you  that  John  Smith  I  knew  out  yonder  in  the  West, — 

That  part  of  our  Republic  I  shall  always  love  the  best! 

Wuz  you  him  that  went  prospectin'  in  the  spring  of  '69 

In  the  Red  Hoss  Mountain  country  for  the  Gosh-all-Hemlock 

mine? 

Oh,  how  I  'd  liked  to  clasped  your  hand,  an'  set  down  by  your  side, 
And  talked  about  the  good  old  days  beyond  the  Big  Divide, — 
Of  the  rackaboar,  the  snaix,  the  bear,  the  Rocky  Mountain  goat, 
Of  the  conversazzhyony,  'nd  of  Casey's  tabble  dote, 
And  a  word  of  them  old  pardners  that  stood  by  us  long  ago, — 
Three-fingered  Hoover,  Sorry  Tom,  and  Parson  Jim,  you  know! 
Old  times,  old  friends,  John  Smith,  would  make  our  hearts  beat 

high  again, 

And  we  'd  see  the  snow-top  mountains  like  we  used  to  see  'em  then; 
The  magpies  would  go  flutterin'  like  strange  sperrits  to  'nd  fro, 
And  we  'd  hear  the  pines  a-singin'  in  the  ragged  gulch  below; 
And  the  mountain  brook  would  loiter  like  upon  its  windin'  way, 
Ez  if  it  waited  for  a  child  to  jine  it  in  its  play. 

You  see,  John  Smith,  just  which  you  are  I  cannot  well  recall; 

And,  really,  I  am  pleased  to  think  you  somehow  must  be  all! 

For  when  a  man  sojourns  abroad  awhile,  as  I  have  done, 

He  likes  to  think  of  all  the  folks  he  left  at  home  as  one. 

And  so  they  are, — for  well  you  know  there  's  nothing  in  a  name; 

Our  Browns,  our  Joneses,  and  our  Smiths  are  happily  the  same, — 

All  represent  the  spirit  of  the  land  across  the  sea; 

All  stand  for  one  high  purpose  in  our  country  of  the  free. 

Whether  John  Smith  be  from  the  South,  the  North,  the  West,  the 

East, 

So  long  as  he  's  American,  it  mattereth  not  the  least; 
Whether  his  crest  be  badger,  bear,  palmetto,  sword,  or  pine, 
His  is  the  glory  of  the  stars  that  with  the  stripes  combine. 
Where'er  he  be,  whate'er  his  lot,  he  's  eager  to  be  known, 
Not  by  his  mortal  name,  but  by  his  country's  name  alone; 
And  so,  compatriot,  I  am  proud  you  wrote  your  name  to-day 
Upon  the  register  at  Lowe's,  "John  Smith,  U.  S.  A." 


70  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 


ST.  MARTIN'S  LANE 

ST.  MARTIN'S  LANE  winds  up  the  hill 

And  trends  a  devious  way; 
I  walk  therein  amid  the  din 

Of  busy  London  day: 
I  walk  where  wealth  and  squalor  meet, 

And  think  upon  a  time 
When  others  trod  this  saintly  sod, 

And  heard  St.  Martin's  chime. 

But  when  those  solemn  bells  invoke 

The  midnight's  slumbrous  grace, 
The  ghosts  of  men  come  back  again 

To  haunt  that  curious  place: 
The  ghosts  of  sages,  poets,  wits, 

Come  back  in  goodly  train; 
And  all  night  long,  with  mirth  and  song, 

They  walk  St.  Martin's  Lane. 

There  's  Jerrold  paired  with  Thackeray, 

Maginn  and  Thomas  Moore, 
And  here  and  there  and  everywhere 

Fraserians  by  the  score; 
And  one  wee  ghost  that  climbs  the  hill 

Is  welcomed  with  a  shout, — 
No  king  could  be  revered  as  he, — 

The  padre,  Father  Prout! 

They  banter  up  and  down  the  street, 

And  clamor  at  the  door 
Of  yonder  inn,  which  once  has  been 

The  scene  of  mirth  galore: 
*T  is  now  a  lonely,  musty  shell, 

Deserted,  like  to  fall; 
And  Echo  mocks  their  ghostly  knocks, 

And  iterates  their  call. 


DEAR    OLD    LONDON  71 

Come  back,  thou  ghost  of  ruddy  host, 

From  Pluto's  misty  shore; 
Renew  to-night  the  keen  delight 

Of  by-gone  years  once  more; 
Brew  for  this  merry,  motley  horde, 

And  serve  the  steaming  cheer; 
And  grant  that  I  may  lurk  hard  by, 

To  see  the  mirth,  and  hear. 

Ah,  me!  I  dream  what  things  may  seem 

To  others  childish  vain, 
And  yet  at  night  't  is  my  delight 

To  walk  St.  Martin's  Lane; 
For,  in  the  light  of  other  days, 

I  walk  with  those  I  love, 
And  all  the  time  St.  Martin's  chime 

Makes  piteous  moan  above. 


DEAR  OLD  LONDON 

WHEN  I  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89, 

I  chanced  to  spy  in  Oxford  Street  this  tantalizing  sign — 

"A  Splendid  Horace  cheap  for  Cash!"     Of  course  I  had  to  look 

Upon  the  vaunted  bargain,  and  it  was  a  noble  book! 

A  finer  one  I  've  never  seen,  nor  can  I  hope  to  see, — 

The  first  edition,  richly  bound,  and  clean  as  clean  can  be, 

And,  just  to  think,  for  three-pounds-ten  I  might  have  had  that  Pine, 

When  I  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89! 

Down  at  Noseda's,  in  the  Strand,  I  found,  one  fateful  day, 

A  portrait  that  I  pined  for  as  only  maniac  may, — 

A  print  of  Madame  Vestris  (she  flourished  years  ago, 

Was  Bartolozzi's  daughter  and  a  thoroughbred,  you  know). 

A  clean  and  handsome  print  it  was,  and  cheap  at  thirty  bob, — 

That  's  wrhat  I  told  the  salesman,  as  I  choked  a  rising  sob; 

But  I  hung  around  Noseda's  as  it  were  a  holy  shrine, 

When  I  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89! 


72  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

At  Davey's,  in  Great  Russell  Street,  were  autographs  galore, 
And  Mr.  Davey  used  to  let  me  con  that  precious  store. 
Sometimes  I  read  what  warriors  wrote,  sometimes  a  king's  command, 
But  oftener  still  a  poet's  verse,  writ  in  a  meagre  hand. 
Lamb,  Byron,  Addison,  and  Burns,  Pope,  Johnson,  Swift,   and 

Scott,— 

It  needed  but  a  paltry  sum  to  comprehend  the  lot; 
Yet,  though  Friend  Davey  marked  'em  down,  what  could  I  but 

decline  ? 
For  I  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89. 

Of  antique  swords  and  spears  I  saw  a  vast  and  dazzling  heap 
That  Curio  Fenton  offered  me  at  prices  passing  cheap; 
And,  oh,  the  quaint  old  bureaus,  and  the  warming-pans  of  brass, 
And  the  lovely  hideous  freaks  I  found  in  pewter  and  in  glass! 
And,  oh,  the  sideboards,  candlesticks,  the  cracked  old  china  plates, 
The  clocks  and  spoons  from  Amsterdam  that  antedate  all  dates  I 
Of  such  superb  monstrosities  I  found  an  endless  mine 
When  I  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89. 

O  ye  that  hanker  after  boons  that  others  idle  by, — 

The  battered  things  that  please  the  soul,  though  they  may  vex 

the  eye, — 

The  silver  plate  and  crockery  all  sanctified  with  grime, 
The  oaken  stuff  that  has  defiled  the  tooth  of  envious  Time, 
The  musty  tomes,  the  speckled  prints,  the  mildewed  bills  of  play, 
And  other  costly  relics  of  malodorous  decay, — 
Ye  only  can  appreciate  what  agony  was  mine 
When  I  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89. 

When,  in  the  course  of  natural  things,  I  go  to  my  reward, 
Let  no  imposing  epitaph  my  martyrdoms  record; 
Neither  in  Hebrew,  Latin,  Greek,  nor  any  classic  tongue, 
Let  my  ten  thousand  triumphs  over  human  griefs  be  sung; 
But  in  plain  Anglo-Saxon — that  he  may  know  who  seeks 
What  agonizing  pangs  I  've  had  while  on  the  hunt  for  freaks — 
Let  there  be  writ  upon  the  slab  that  marks  my  grave  this  line: 
"Deceased  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89." 


THE   CLINK   OF   THE   ICE  73 


THE  CLINK  OF  THE  ICE 

NOTABLY  fond  of  music,  I  dote  on  a  sweeter  tone 

Than  ever  the  harp  has  uttered  or  ever  the  lute  has  known. 

When  I  wake  at  five  in  the  morning  with  a  feeling  in  my  head 

Suggestive  of  mild  excesses  before  I  retired  to  bed; 

When  a  small  but  fierce  volcano  vexes  me  sore  inside, 

And  my  throat  and  mouth  are  furred  with  a  fur  that  seemeth  a 

buffalo  hide, — 

How  gracious  those  dews  of  solace  that  over  my  senses  fall 
At  the  clink  of  the   ice   in   the  pitcher  the   boy  brings   up  the 

hall! 

Oh,  is  it  the  gaudy  ballet,  with  features  I  cannot  name, 

That  kindles  in  virile  bosoms  that  slow  but  devouring  flame? 

Or  is  it  the  midnight  supper,  eaten  before  we  retire, 

That  presently  by  combustion  setteth  us  all  afire? 

Or  is  it  the  cheery  magnum  ? — nay,  I'll  not  chide  the  cup 

That  makes  the  meekest  mortal  anxious  to  whoop  things  up: 

Yet,  what  the  cause  soever,  relief  comes  when  we  call, — 

Relief  with  that  rapturous  clinkety-clink  that  clinketh  alike  for  all. 

I  've  dreamt   of   the   fiery   furnace  that   was  one  vast  bulk  of 

flame, 

And  that  I  was  Abednego  a- wallowing  in  that  same; 
And  I  've  dreamt  I  was  a  crater,  possessed  of  a  mad  desire 
To  vomit  molten  lava,  and  to  snort  big  gobs  of  fire; 
I  've  dreamt  I  was  Roman  candles  and  rockets  that  fizzed  and 

screamed, — 
In  short,  I  have  dreamt  the  cussedest  dreams  that  ever  a  human 

dreamed : 

But  all  the  red-hot  fancies  were  scattered  quick  as  a  wink 
When  the  spirit  within  that  pitcher  went  clinking  its  clinkety-clink. 

Boy,  why  so  slow  in  coming  with  that  gracious,  saving  cup? 
Oh,  haste  thee  to  the  succor  of  the  man  who  is  burning  up! 
See  how  the  ice  bobs  up  and  down,  as  if  it  wildly  strove 
To  reach  its  grace  to  the  wretch  who  feels  like  a  red-hot  kitchen 
stove ! 


74  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

The  piteous  clinks  it  clinks  methinks  should  thrill  you  through 

and  through: 

An  erring  soul  is  wanting  drink,  and  he  wants  it  p.  d.  q.  I 
And,  lo!   the  honest  pitcher,  too,  falls  in  so  dire  a  fret 
That  its  pallid  form  is  presently  bedewed  with  a  chilly  sweat. 

May  blessings  be  showered  upon  the  man  who  first  devised  this 

drink 

That  happens  along  at  five  A.  M.  with  its  rapturous  clinkety-clink! 
I  never  have  felt  the  cooling  flood  go  sizzling  down  my  throat 
But  what  I  vowed  to  hymn  a  hymn  to  that  clinkety-clink  devote; 
So  now,  in  the  prime  of  my  manhood,  I  polish  this  lyric  gem 
For  the  uses  of  all  good  fellows  who  are  thirsty  at  five  A.  M., 
But  specially  for  those  fellows  who  have  known  the  pleasing  thrall 
Of  the  clink  of  the  ice  in  the  pitcher  the  boy  brings  up  the  hall. 


THE  BELLS  OF  NOTRE  DAME 

WHAT  though  the  radiant  thoroughfare 

Teems  with  a  noisy  throng? 
What  though  men  bandy  everywhere 

The  ribald  jest  and  song? 
Over  the  din  of  oaths  and  cries 

Broodeth  a  wondrous  calm, 
And  'mid  that  solemn  stillness  rise 

The  bells  of  Notre  Dame. 


"Heed  not,  dear  Lord,"  they  seem  to  say, 

"Thy  weak  and  erring  child; 
And  thou,  O  gentle  Mother,  pray 

That  God  be  reconciled; 
And  on  mankind,  O  Christ,  our  King, 

Pour  out  Thy  gracious  balm,"- 
'T  is  thus  they  plead  and  thus  they  sing, 

Those  bells  of  Notre  Dame. 


LOVER'S  LANE,  SAINT  jo  75 

And  so,  methinks,  God,  bending  down 

To  ken  the  things  of  earth, 
Heeds  not  the  mockery  of  the  town 

Or  cries  of  ribald  mirth; 
For  ever  soundeth  in  His  ears 

A  penitential  psalm, — 
'T  is  thy  angelic  voice  He  hears, 

O  bells  of  Notre  Dame! 

Plead  on,  O  bells,  that  thy  sweet  voice 

May  still  forever  be 
An  intercession  to  rejoice 

Benign  divinity; 
And  that  thy  tuneful  grace  may  fall 

Like  dew,  a  quickening  balm, 
Upon  the  arid  hearts  of  all, 

O  bells  of  Notre  Dame/ 


LOVER'S  LANE,  SAINT  JO 

SAINT  Jo,  Buchanan  County, 

Is  leagues  and  leagues  away; 
And  I  sit  in  the  gloom  of  this  rented  room, 

And  pine  to  be  there  to-day. 
Yes,  with  London  fog  around  me 

And  the  bustling  to  and  fro, 
I  am  fretting  to  be  across  the  sea 

In  Lover's  Lane,  Saint  Jo. 

I  would  have  a  brown-eyed  maiden 

Go  driving  once  again; 
And  I  'd  sing  the  song,  as  we  snailed  along. 

That  I  sung  to  that  maiden  then: 
I  purposely  say,  "as  we  snailed  along/' 

For  a  proper  horse  goes  slow 
In  those  leafy  aisles,  where  Cupid  smiles, 

In  Lover's  Lane,  Saint  Jo. 


76  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

From  her  boudoir  in  the  alders 

Would  peep  a  lynx-eyed  thrush, 
And  we  'd  hear  her  say,  in  a  furtive  way, 

To  the  noisy  cricket,  "Hush!" 
To  think  that  the  curious  creature 

Should  crane  her  neck  to  know 
The  various  things  one  says  and  sings 

In  Lover's  Lane,  Saint  Jo. 

But  the  maples  they  should  shield  us 

From  the  gossips  of  the  place; 
Nor  should  the  sun,  except  by  pun, 

Profane  the  maiden's  face; 
And  the  girl  should  do  the  driving, 

For  a  fellow  can't,  you  know, 
Unless  he  's  neglectful  of  what 's  quite  respectful 

In  Lover's  Lane,  Saint  Jo. 

Ah!   sweet  the  hours  of  springtime, 

When  the  heart  inclines  to  woo, 
And  it 's  deemed  all  right  for  the  callow  wight 

To  do  what  he  wants  to  do; 
But  cruel  the  age  of  winter, 

When  the  way  of  the  world  says  no 
.To  the  hoary  men  who  would  woo  again 

In  Lover's  Lane,  Saint  Jo! 

In  the  Union  Bank  of  London 

Are  forty  pounds  or  more, 
Which  I  'm  like  to  spend,  ere  the  month  shall  end, 

In  an  antiquarian  store; 
But  I  'd  give  it  all,  and  gladly, 

If  for  an  hour  or  so 
I  could  feel  the  grace  of  a  distant  place, — 

Of  Lover's  Lane,  Saint  Jo. 

Let  us  sit  awhile,  beloved, 

And  dream  of  the  good  old  days, — 

Of  the  kindly  shade  which  the  maples  made 
Round  the  stanch  but  squeaky  chaise; 


CRUMPETS   AND   TEA  77 

With  your  head  upon  my  shoulder, 

And  my  arm  about  you  so, 
Though  exiles,  we  shall  seem  to  be 

In  Lover's  Lane,  Saint  Jo. 


CRUMPETS  AND  TEA 

THERE  are  happenings  in  life  that  are  destined  to  rise 

Like  dear,  hallowed  visions  before  a  man's  eyes; 

And  the  passage  of  years  shall  not  dim  in  the  least 

The  glory  and  joy  of  our  Sabbath-day  feast, — 

The  Sabbath-day  luncheon  that 's  spread  for  us  three, — 

My  worthy  companions,  Teresa  and  Leigh, 

And  me,  all  so  hungry  for  crumpets  and  tea. 

There  are  cynics  who  say  with  invidious  zest 
That  a  crumpet 's  a  thing  that  will  never  digest; 
But  I  happen  to  know  that  a  crumpet  is  prime 
For  digestion,  if  only  you  give  it  its  time. 
Or  if,  by  a  chance,  it  should  not  quite  agree, 
Why,  who  would  begrudge  a  physician  his  fee 
For  plying  his  trade  upon  crumpets  and  tea  ? 

To  toast  crumpets  quite  a  la  mode,  I  require 
A  proper  long  fork  and  a  proper  quick  fire; 
And  when  they  are  browned,  without  further  ado, 
I  put  on  the  butter,  that  soaks  through  and  through. 
And  meantime  Teresa,  directed  by  Leigh, 
Compounds  and  pours  out  a  rich  brew  for  us  three; 
And  so  we  sit  down  to  our  crumpets — and  tea. 

A  hand-organ  grinds  in  the  street  a  weird  bit, — 

Confound  those  Italians!   I  wish  they  would  quit 

Interrupting  our  feast  with  their  dolorous  airs, 

Suggestive  of  climbing  the  heavenly  stairs. 

(It 's  thoughts  of  the  future,  as  all  will  agree, 

That  we  fain  would  dismiss  from  our  bosoms  when  we 

Sit  down  to  discussion  of  crumpets  and  tea!) 


78  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

The  Sabbath-day  luncheon  whereof  I  now  speak 
Quite  answers  its  purpose  the  rest  of  the  week; 
Yet  with  the  next  Sabbath  I  wait  for  the  bell 
Announcing  the  man  who  has  crumpets  to  sell; 
Then  I  scuttle  downstairs  in  a  frenzy  of  glee, 
And  purchase  for  sixpence  enough  for  us  three, 
Who  hunger  and  hanker  for  crumpets  and  tea. 

But  soon — ah!  too  soon — I  must  bid  a  farewell 
To  joys  that  succeed  to  the  sound  of  that  bell, 
Must  hie  me  away  from  the  dank,  foggy  shore 
That's  filled  me  with  colic  and — yearnings  for  more! 
Then  the  cruel,  the  heartless,  the  conscienceless  sea 
Shall  bear  me  afar  from  Teresa  and  Leigh 
And  the  other  twin  friendships  of  crumpets  and  tea. 

Yet  often,  ay,  ever,  before  my  wan  eyes 

That  Sabbath-day  luncheon  of  old  shall  arise. 

My  stomach,  perhaps,  shall  improve  by  the  change, 

Since  crumpets  it  seems  to  prefer  at  long  range; 

But,  oh,  how  my  palate  will  hanker  to  be 

In  London  again  with  Teresa  and  Leigh, 

Enjoying  the  rapture  of  crumpets  and  tea! 


AN  IMITATION  OF  DR.  WATTS 

THROUGH  all  my  life  the  poor  shall  find 

In  me  a  constant  friend; 
And  on  the  meek  of  every  kind 

My  mercy  shall  attend. 

The  dumb  shall  never  call  on  me 

In  vain  for  kindly  aid; 
And  in  my  hands  the  blind  shall  see 

A  bounteous  alms  displayed. 


THE   TEA-GOWN  79 

In  all  their  walks  the  lame  shall  know 

And  feel  my  goodness  near; 
And  on  the  deaf  will  I  bestow 

My  gentlest  words  of  cheer. 

'T  i's  by  such  pious  works  as  these, 

Which  I  delight  to  do, 
That  men  their  fellow-creatures  please, 

And  please  their  Maker  too. 


THE  TEA-GOWN 

MY  lady  has  a  tea-gown 

That  is  wondrous  fair  to  see, — 
It  is  flounced  and  ruffed  and  plaited  and  puffed, 

As  a  tea-gown  ought  to  be; 
And  I  thought  she  must  be  jesting 

Last  night  at  supper  when 
She  remarked,  by  chance,  that  it  came  from  France, 

And  had  cost  but  two  pounds  ten. 

Had  she  told  me  fifty  shillings, 

I  might  (and  would  n't  you  ?) 
Have  referred  to  that  dress  in  a  way  folks  express 

By  an  eloquent  dash  or  two; 
But  the  guileful  little  creature 

Knew  well  her  tactics  when 
She  casually  said  that  that  dream  in  red 

Had  cost  but  two  pounds  ten. 

Yet  our  home  is  all  the  brighter 

For  that  dainty,  sentient  thing, 
That  floats  away  where  it  properly  may, 

And  clings  where  it  ought  to  cling; 
And  I  count  myself  the  luckiest 

Of  all  us  married  men 
That  I  have  a  wife  whose  joy  in  life 

Is  a  gown  at  two  pounds  ten. 


80  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

It  is  n't  the  gown  compels  me 

Condone  this  venial  sin; 
It 's  the  pretty  face  above  the  lace, 

And  the  gentle  heart  within. 
And  with  her  arms  about  me 

I  say,  and  say  again, 
"  'T  was  wondrous  cheap," — and  I  think  a  heap 

Of  that  gown  at  two  pounds  ten! 


DOCTORS 

'T  is  quite  the  thing  to  say  and  sing 

Gross  libels  on  the  doctor, — 
To  picture  him  an  ogre  grim 

Or  humbug-pill  concocter; 
Yet  it  Js  in  quite  another  light 

My  friendly  pen  would  show  him, 
Glad  that  it  may  with  verse  repay 

Some  part  of  what  I  owe  him. 

When  one  's  all  right,  he  's  prone  to  spite 

The  doctor's  peaceful  mission; 
But  when  he  's  sick,  it 's  loud  and  quick 

He  bawls  for  a  physician. 
With  other  things,  the  doctor  brings 

Sweet  babes,  our  hearts  to  soften: 
Though  I  have  four,  I  pine  for  more, — 

Good  doctor,  pray  come  often! 

What  though  he  sees  death  and  disease 

Run  riot  all  around  him? 
Patient  and  true,  and  valorous  too, 

Such  have  I  always  found  him. 
Where'er  he  goes,  he  soothes  our  woes; 

And  when  skill 's  unavailing, 
And  death  is  near,  his  words  of  cheer 

Support  our  courage  failing. 


DOCTORS  81 

In  ancient  days  they  used  to  praise 

The  godlike  art  of  healing, — 
An  art  that  then  engaged  all  men 

Possessed  of  sense  and  feeling. 
Why,  Raleigh,  he  was  glad  to  be 

Famed  for  a  quack  elixir; 
And  Digby  sold,  as  we  are  told, 

A  charm  for  folk  lovesick,  sir. 

Napoleon  knew  a  thing  or  two, 

And  clearly  he  was  partial 
To  doctors,  for  in  time  of  war 

He  chose  one  for  a  marshal. 
In  our  great  cause  a  doctor  was 

The  first  to  pass  death's  portal, 
And  Warren's  name  at  once  became 

A  beacon  and  immortal. 

A  heap,  indeed,  of  what  we  read 

By  doctors  is  provided; 
For  to  those  groves  Apollo  loves 

Their  leaning  is  decided. 
Deny  who  may  that  Rabelais 

Is  first  in  wit  and  learning, 
And  yet  all  smile  and  marvel  while 

His  brilliant  leaves  they  're  turning. 

How  Lever's  pen  has  charmed  all  men! 

How  touching  Rab's  short  story! 
And  I  will  stake  my  all  that  Drake 

Is  still  the  school-boy's  glory. 
A  doctor-man  it  was  began 

Great  Britain's  great  museum, — 
The  treasures  there  are  all  so  rare, 

It  drives  me  wild  to  see  'em! 

There  's  Cuvier,  Parr,  and  Rush;   they  are 

Big  monuments  to  learning. 
To  Mitchell's  prose  (how  smooth  it  flows!) 

We  all  are  fondly  turning. 


82  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Tomes  might  be  writ  of  that  keen  wit 
Which  Abernethy's  famed  for; 

With  bread-crumb  pills  he  cured  the  ills 
Most  doctors  now  get  blamed  for. 

In  modern  times  the  noble  rhymes 

Of  Holmes,  a  great  physician, 
Have  solace  brought  and  wisdom  taught 

To  hearts  of  all  condition. 
The  sailor,  bound  for  Puget  Sound, 

Finds  pleasure  still  unfailing, 
If  he  but  troll  the  barcarole 

Old  Osborne  wrote  on  Whaling. 

If  there  were  need,  I  could  proceed 

Ad  naus.  with  this  prescription, 
But,  inter  nos,  a  larger  dose 

Might  give  you  fits  conniption; 
Yet,  ere  I  end,  there's  one  dear  friend 

I  'd  hold  before  these  others, 
For  he  and  I  in  years  gone  by 

Have  chummed  around  like  brothers. 

Together  we  have  sung  in  glee 

The  song  old  Horace  made  for 
Our  genial  craft,  together  quaffed 

What  bowls  that  doctor  paid  for! 
I  love  the  rest,  but  love  him  best; 

And,  were  not  times  so  pressing, 
I  'd  buy  and  send — you  smile,  old  friend  ? 

Well,  then,  here  goes  my  blessing. 


BARBARA  83 


BARBARA 

BLITHE  was  the  youth  that  summer  day, 

As  he  smote  at  the  ribs  of  earth, 
And  he  plied  his  pick  with  a  merry  click, 

And  he  whistled  anon  in  mirth; 
And  the  constant  thought  of  his  dear  one's  face 
Seemed  to  illumine  that  ghostly  place. 

The  gaunt  earth  envied  the  lover's  joy, 
And  she  moved,  and  closed  on  his  head: 

With  no  one  nigh  and  with  never  a  cry 
The  beautiful  boy  lay  dead; 

And  the  treasure  he  sought  for  his  sweetheart  fair 

Crumbled,  and  clung  to  his  glorious  hair. 

Fifty  years  is  a  mighty  space 

In  the  human  toil  for  bread; 
But  to  Love  and  to  Death  't  is  merely  a  breath, 

A  dream  that  is  quickly  sped, — 
Fifty  years,  and  the  fair  lad  lay 
Just  as  he  fell  that  summer  day. 

At  last  came  others  in  quest  of  gold, 
And  hewed  in  that  mountain  place; 

And  deep  in  the  ground  one  time  they  found 
The  boy  with  the  smiling  face: 

All  uncorrupt  by  the  pitiless  air, 

He  lay,  with  his  crown  of  golden  hair. 

They  bore  him  up  to  the  sun  again, 

And  laid  him  beside  the  brook, 
And  the  folk  came  down  from  the  busy  town 

To  wonder  and  prate  and  look; 
And  so,  to  a  world  that  knew  him  not, 
The  boy  came  back  to  the  old-time  spot. 

Old  Barbara  hobbled  among  the  rest, — 
Wrinkled  and  bowed  was  she, — 


84  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

And  she  gave  a  cry,  as  she  fared  anigh, 

"At  last  he  is  come  to  me!" 

And  she  kneeled  by  the  side  of  the  dead  boy  there, 
And  she  kissed  his  lips,  and  she  stroked  his  hair. 

"Thine  eyes  are  sealed,  O  dearest  one! 

And  better  it  is  't  is  so, 
Else  thou  might  'st  see  how  harsh  with  me 

Dealt  Life  thou  couldst  not  know 
Kindlier  Death  has  kept  thee  fair; 
The  sorrow  of  Life  hath  been  my  share." 

Barbara  bowed  her  aged  face, 

And  fell  on  the  breast  of  her  dead; 

And  the  golden  hair  of  her  dear  one  there 
Caressed  her  snow-white  head. 

Oh,  Life  is  sweet,  with  its  touch  of  pain; 

But  sweeter  the  Death  that  joined  those  twain. 


THE  CAFE  MOLINEAU 

THE  Cafe  Molineau  is  where 

A  dainty  little  minx 
Serves  God  and  men  as  best  she  can 
By  serving  meats  and  drinks. 
Oh,  such  an  air  the  creature  has, 

And  such  a  pretty  face! 
I  took  delight  that  autumn  night 

In  hanging  round  the  place. 

I  know  but  very  little  French 

(I  have  not  long  been  here) ; 
But  when  she  spoke,  her  meaning  broke 

Full  sweetly  on  my  ear. 
Then,  too,  she  seemed  to  understand 

Whatever  I  'd  to  say, 
Though  most  I  knew  was  "oony  poo," 

"Bong  zhoor,"  and  "see  voo  play." 


HOLLY   AND   IVY  85 

The  female  wit  is  always  quick, 

And  of  all  womankind 
'T  is  here  in  France  that  you,  perchance, 

The  keenest  wits  shall  find; 
And  here  you  '11  find  that  subtle  gift, 

That  rare,  distinctive  touch, 
Combined  with  grace  of  form  and  face, 

That  glads  men  overmuch. 

"Our  girls  at  home/'  I  mused  aloud, 

"Lack  either  that  or  this; 
They  don't  combine  the  arts  divine 

As  does  the  Gallic  miss. 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  malign 

Our  belles  across  the  sea, 
And  yet  I  '11  swear  none  can  compare 

With  this  ideal  She." 

And  then  I  praised  her  dainty  foot 

In  very  awful  French, 
And  parleywood  in  guileful  mood 

Until  the  saucy  wench 
Tossed  back  her  haughty  auburn  head, 

And  froze  me  with  disdain: 
"There  are  on  me  no  flies,"  said  she, 

"For  I  come  from  Bangor,  Maine!" 


HOLLY  AND  IVY 

HOLLY  standeth  in  ye  house 

When  that  Noel  draweth  near; 

Evermore  at  ye  door 

Standeth  Ivy,  shivering  sore 

In  ye  night  wind  bleak  and  drear; 

And,  as  weary  hours  go  by, 

Doth  ye  one  to  other  cry. 


86  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

"Sister  Holly,"  Ivy  quoth, 

"What  is  that  within  you  see? 

To  and  fro  doth  ye  glow 

Of  ye  yule-log  flickering  go; 

Would  its  warmth  did  cherish  me! 

Where  thou  bidest  is  it  warm; 

I  am  shaken  of  ye  storm." 

"Sister  Ivy,"  Holly  quoth, 

"Brightly  burns  the  yule-log  here, 
And  love  brings  beauteous  things, 
While  a  guardian  angel  sings 

To  the  babes  that  slumber  near; 
But,  O  Ivy!   tell  me  now, 
What  without  there  seest  thou?" 

"Sister  Holly,"  Ivy  quoth, 

"With  fair  music  comes  ye  Morn, 
And  afar  burns  ye  Star 
Where  ye  wondering  shepherds  are 

And  the  Shepherd  King  is  born: 
*  Peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men/ 
Angels  cry,  and  cry  again." 

Holly  standeth  in  ye  house 

When  that  Noel  draweth  near; 

Clambering  o'er  yonder  door, 

Ivy  standeth  evermore; 

And  to  them  that  rightly  hear 

Each  one  speaketh  of  ye  love 

That  outpoureth  from  Above. 


THE  BOLTONS,  22 

WHEN  winter  nights  are  grewsome,  and  the  heavy,  yellow  fog 
Gives  to  Piccadilly  semblance  of  a  dank,  malarious  bog; 
When  a  demon,  with  companion  in  similitude  of  bell, 
Goes  round  informing  people  he  has  crumpets  for  to  sell; 


THE   BOLTONS,    22  87 

When  a  weird,  asthmatic  minstrel  haunts  your  door  for  hours  along, 
Until  you've  paid  him  tu'pence  for  the  thing  he  calls  a  song,— 
When,  in  short,  the  world  's  against  you,  and  you  'd  give  that 

world,  and  more, 

To  lay  your  weary  heart  at  rest  upon  your  native  shore, 
There  's  happily  one  saving  thing  for  you  and  yours  to  do: 
Go  call  on  Isaac  Henderson,  The  Boltons,  22. 

The  place  is  all  so  cheery  and  so  warm,  I  love  to  spend 
My  evenings  in  communion  with  the  genial  host,  my  friend. 
One  sees  chefs  d'ostivre  of  masters  in  profusion  on  the  wralls, 
And  a  monster  canine  swaggers  up  and  down  the  spacious  halls; 
There  are  divers  things  of  beauty  to  astound,  instruct,  and  please, 
And  everywhere  assurance  of  contentment  and  of  ease: 
But  best  of  all  the  gentle  hearts  I  meet  with  in  the  place, — 
The  host's  good-fellowship,  his  wife's  sincere  and  modest  grace; 
WThy,  if  there  be  cordiality  that  warms  you  through  and  through, 
It 's  found  at  Isaac  Henderson's,  The  Boltons,  22. 

My  favorite  room  's  the  study  that  is  on  the  second  floor; 
And  there  we  sit  in  judgment  on  men  and  things  galore. 
The  fire  burns  briskly  in  the  grate,  and  sheds  a  genial  glare 
On  me,  who  most  discreetly  have  pre-empted  Isaac's  chair, — 
A  big,  low  chair,  with  grateful  springs,  and  curious  device 
To  keep  a  fellow's  cerebellum  comf'table  and  nice. 
A  shade  obscures  the  functions  of  the  stately  lamp,  in  spite 
Of  Mrs.  Henderson's  demands  for  somewhat  more  of  light; 
But  he  and  I  demur,  and  say  a  mystic  gloom  will  do 
For  winter-night  communion  at  the  Boltons,  22. 

Sometimes  he  reads  me  Browning,  or  from  Bryant  culls  a  bit, 
And  sometimes  plucks  a  gem  from  Hood's  philosophy  and  wit; 
And  oftentimes  I  tell  him  yarns,  and  (what  I  fear  is  worse) 
Recite  him  sundry  specimens  of  woolly  Western  verse. 
And  while  his  muse  and  mine  transcend  the  bright  Horatian's  stars, 
He  smokes  his  modest  pipe,  and  I — I  smoke  his  choice  cigars! 
For  best  of  mild  Havanas  this  considerate  host  supplies, — 
The  proper  brand,  the  proper  shade,  and  quite  the  proper  size; 
And  so  I  buckle  down  and  smoke  and  smoke, — and  so  will  you, 
If  ever  you  're  invited  to  the  Boltons,  22. 


88  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

But,  oh!  the  best  of  worldly  joys  is  as  a  dream  short-lived: 

'T  is  twelve  o'clock,  and  Robinson  reports  our  cab  arrived. 

A  last  libation  ere  we  part,  and  hands  all  round,  and  then 

A  cordial  invitation  to  us  both  to  come  again. 

So  home  through  Piccadilly  and  through  Oxford  Street  we  jog, 

On  slippery,  noisy  pavements  and  in  blinding,  choking  fog, — 

The  same  old  route  through  Circus,  Square,  and  Quadrant  we 

retrace, 

Till  we  reach  the  princely  mansion  known  as  20  Alfred  Place; 
And  then  we  seek  our  feathery  beds  of  cotton  to  renew 
In  dreams  the  sweet  distractions  of  the  Boltons,  22. 

God  bless  you,  good  friend  Isaac,  and  your  lovely,  gracious  wife; 
May  health  and  wealth  attend  you,  and  happiness,  through  life; 
And  as  you  sit  of  evenings  that  quiet  room  within, 
Know  that  in  spirit  I  shall  be  your  guest  as  I  have  been. 
So  fill  and  place  beside  that  chair  that  dainty  claret-cup; 
Methinks  that  ghostly  hands  shall  take  the  tempting  offering  up, 
That  ghostly  lips  shall  touch  the  bowl  and  quaff  the  ruby  wine, 
Pledging  in  true  affection  this  toast  to  thee  and  thine: 
"May  God's  best  blessings  fall  as  falls  the  gentle,  gracious  dew 
Upon  the  kindly  household  at  the  Boltons,  22!" 


DIBDIN'S   GHOST 

DEAR  wife,  last  midnight,  whilst  I  read 

The  tomes  you  so  despise, 
A  spectre  rose  beside  the  bed, 

And  spake  in  this  true  wise: 
"From  Canaan's  beatific  coast 

I  've  come  to  visit  thee, 
For  I  am  Frognall  Dibdin's  ghost," 

Says  Dibdin's  ghost  to  me. 

I  bade  him  welcome,  and  we  twain 
Discussed  with  buoyant  hearts 

The  various  things  that  appertain 
To  bibliomaniac  arts. 


89 


"Since  you  are  fresh  from  t'  other  side, 

Pray  tell  me  of  that  host 
That  treasured  books  before  they  died," 

Says  I  to  Dibdin's  ghost. 

"They  've  entered  into  perfect  rest; 

For  in  the  life  they  Ve  won 
There  are  no  auctions  to  molest, 

No  creditors  to  dun. 
Their  heavenly  rapture  has  no  bounds 

Beside  that  jasper  sea; 
It  is  a  joy  unknown  to  Lowndes," 

Says  Dibdin's  ghost  to  me. 

Much  I  rejoiced  to  hear  him  speak 

Of  biblio-bliss  above, 
For  I  am  one  of  those  who  seek 

What  bibliomaniacs  love. 
"But  tell  me,  for  I  long  to  hear 

What  doth  concern  me  most, 
Are  wives  admitted  to  that  sphere?" 

Says  I  to  Dibdin's  ghost. 

"The  women  folk  are  few  up  there; 

For  't  were  not  fair,  you  know, 
That  they  our  heavenly  joy  should  share 

Who  vex  us  here  below. 
The  few  are  those  who  have  been  kind 

To  husbands  such  as  we; 
They  knew  our  fads,  and  did  n't  mind," 

Says  Dibdin's  ghost  to  me. 

"But  what  of  those  who  scold  at  us 

When  we  would  read  in  bed? 
Or,  wanting  victuals,  make  a  fuss 

If  we  buy  books  instead  ? 
And  what  of  those  who  've  dusted  not 

Our  motley  pride  and  boast, — 
Shall  they  profane  that  sacred  spot?" 

Says  I  to  Dibdin's  ghost. 


90  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

"Oh,  no!  they  tread  that  other  path, 

Which  leads  where  torments  roll, 
And  worms,  yes,  bookworms,  vent  their  wrath 

Upon  the  guilty  soul. 
Untouched  of  bibliomaniac  grace, 

That  saveth  such  as  we, 
They  wallow  in  that  dreadful  place," 

Says  Dibdin's  ghost  to  me. 

"To  my  dear  wife  will  I  recite 

What  things  I  've  heard  you  say; 
She  '11  let  me  read  the  books  by  night, 

She  's  let  me  buy  by  day. 
For  we  together  by  and  by 

Would  join  that  heavenly  host; 
She  's  earned  a  rest  as  well  as  I," 

Says  I  to  Dibdin's  ghost. 


THE  BOTTLE  AND  THE  BIRD 

ONCE  on  a  time  a  friend  of  mine  prevailed  on  me  to  go 
To  see  the  dazzling  splendors  of  a  sinful  ballet  show; 
And  after  we  had  revelled  in  the  saltatory  sights, 
We  sought  a  neighboring  cafe  for  more  tangible  delights. 
When  I  demanded  of  my  friend  what  viands  he  preferred, 
He  quoth:     "A  large  cold  bottle,  and  a  small  hot  bird!" 

Fool  that  I  wras,  I  did  not  know  what  anguish  hidden  lies 

Within  the  morceau  that  allures  the  nostrils  and  the  eyes! 

There  is  a  glorious  candor  in  an  honest  quart  of  wine, 

A  certain  inspiration  which  I  cannot  well  define! 

How  it  bubbles,  how  it  sparkles,  how  its  gurgling  seems  to  say: 

"Come!   on  a  tide  of  rapture  let  me  float  your  soul  away!" 

But  the  crispy,  steaming  mouthful  that  is  spread  upon  your  plate,— 

How  it  discounts  human  sapience  and  satirizes  fate! 

You  wouldn't  think  a  thing  so  small  could  cause  the  pains  and  aches 


THE    BOTTLE    AND    THE    BIRD  91 

That  certainly  accrue  to  him  that  of  that  thing  partakes; 
To  me,  at  least  (a  guileless  wight!),  it  never  once  occurred 
What  horror  was  encompassed  in  that  small  hot  bird. 

Oh!  what  a  head  I  had  on  me  when  I  awoke  next  day, 
And  what  a  firm  conviction  of  intestinal  decay! 
What  seas  of  mineral  water  and  of  bromide  I  applied 
To  quench  those  fierce  volcanic  fires  that  rioted  inside! 
And,  oh,  the  thousand  solemn,  awful  vows  I  plighted  then 
Never  to  tax  my  system  with  a  small  hot  bird  again! 

The  doctor  seemed  to  doubt  that  birds  could  worry  people  so, 
But,  bless  him!  since  I  ate  the  bird,  I  guess  I  ought  to  know! 
The  acidous  condition  of  my  stomach,  so  he  said, 
Bespoke  a  vinous  irritant  that  amplified  my  head, 
And,  ergo,  the  causation  of  the  thing,  as  he  inferred, 
Was  the  large  cold  bottle, — not  the  small  hot  bird. 

Of  course  I  know  it  was  n't,  and  I  'm  sure  you  '11  say  I  'm  right 

If  ever  it  has  been  your  wont  to  train  around  at  night. 

How  sweet  is  retrospection  when  one's  heart  is  bathed  in  wine, 

And  before  its  balmy  breath  how  do  the  ills  of  life  decline! 

How  the  gracious  juices  drown  what  griefs  would  vex  a   mortal 

breast, 
And  float  the  flattered  soul  into  the  port  of  dreamless  rest! 

But  you,  O  noxious,  pigmy  bird!   whether  it  be  you  fly, 
Or  paddle  in  the  stagnant  pools  that  sweltering,  festering  lie, — 
I  curse  you  and  your  evil  kind  for  that  you  do  me  wrong, 
Engendering  poisons  that  corrupt  my  petted  muse  of  song; 
Go,  get  thee  hence!   and  never  more  discomfit  me  and  mine, — 
I  fain  would  barter  all  thy  brood  for  one  sweet  draught  of  wine! 

So  hither  come,  O  sportive  youth !   when  fades  the  telltale  day,— 
Come  hither,  with  your  fillets  and  your  wreaths  of  posies  gay; 
We  shall  unloose  the  fragrant  seas  of  seething,  frothing  wine 
Which  now  the   cobwebbed  glass  and  envious  wire  and  corks 

confine, 

And  midst  the  pleasing  revelry  the  praises  shall  be  heard 
Of  the  large  cold  bottle, — not  the  small  hot  bird! 


92  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 


CARLSBAD 

DEAR  Palmer,  just  a  year  ago  we  did  the  Carlsbad  cure, 
Which,  though  it  be  exceeding  slow,  is  as  exceeding  sure; 
To  corpulency  you  were  prone,  dyspepsia  bothered  me,— 
You  tipped  the  beam  at  twenty  stone  and  I  at  ten  stone  three! 
The  cure,  they  told  us,  works  both  ways:  it  makes  the  fat  man  lean; 
The  thin  man,  after  many  days,  achieves  a  portly  mien; 
And  though  it 's  true  you  still  are  fat,  while  I  am  like  a  crow, — 
All  skin  and  feathers, — what  of  that?    The  cure  takes  time,  you 
know. 

The  Carlsbad  scenery  is  sublime, — that 's  what  the  guide-books  say; 

We  did  not  think  so  at  that  time,  nor  think  I  so  to-day! 

The  bluffs  that  squeeze  the  panting  town  permit  no  pleasing  views, 

But  weigh  the  mortal  spirits  down  and  give  a  chap  the  blues. 

With  nothing  to  amuse  us  then  or  mitigate  our  spleen, 

We  rose  and  went  to  bed  again,  with  three  bad  meals  between; 

And  constantly  we  made  our  moan, — ah,  none  so  drear  as  we, 

When  you  were  weighing  twenty  stone  and  I  but  ten  stone  three! 

We  never  scaled  the  mountain-side,  for  walking  was  my  bane, 
And  you  were  much  too  big  to  ride  the  mules  that  there  obtain; 
And  so  we  loitered  in  the  shade,  with  Israel  out  in  force, 
Or  through  the  Pupp'sche  allee  strayed  and  heard  the  band  dis 
course. 

Sometimes  it  pleased  us  to  recline  upon  the  Tepl's  brink, 
Or  watch  the  bilious  human  line  file  round  to  get  a  drink; 
Anon  the  portier's  piping  tone  embittered  you  and  me, 
When  you  were  weighing  twenty  stone  and  I  but  ten  stone  three! 

And  oh!   those  awful  things  to  eat!   No  pudding,  cake,  or  pie, 

But  just  a  little  dab  of  meat,  and  crusts  absurdly  dry; 

Then,  too,  that  water  twice  a  day, — one  swallow  was  enough 

To  take  one's  appetite  away, — the  tepid,  awful  stuff! 

Tortured  by  hunger's  cruel  stings,  I  'd  little  else  to  do 

Than  feast  my  eyes  upon  the  things  prescribed  and  cooked  for  you. 

The  goodies  went  to  you  alone,  the  husks  all  fell  to  me, 

When  you  were  weighing  twenty  stone  and  I  weighed  ten  stone  three. 


RED  93 

Yet  happy  days!   and  rapturous  ills!   and  sweetly  dismal  date! 
When,  sandwiched  in  between  those  hills,  we  twain  bemoaned 

our  fate. 

The  little  woes  we  suffered  then  like  mists  have  sped  away, 
And  I  were  glad  to  share  again  those  ills  with  you  to-day, — 
To  flounder  in  those  rains  of  June  that  flood  that  Austrian  vale, 
To  quaff  that  tepid  Kaiserbrunn  and  starve  on  victuals  stale! 
And  often,  leagues  and  leagues  away  from  where  we  suffered  then, 
With  envious  yearnings  I  survey  what  cannot  be  again! 

And  often  in  my  quiet  home,  through  dim  and  misty  eyes, 

I  seem  to  see  that  curhaus  dome  blink  at  the  radiant  skies; 

I  seem  to  hear  that  Wiener  band  above  the  TepPs  roar, — 

To  feel  the  pressure  of  your  hand  and  hear  your  voice  once  more ; 

And,  better  yet,  my  heart  is  warm  with  thoughts  of  you  and  yours, 

For  friendship  hath  a  sweeter  charm  than  thrice  ten  thousand  cures ! 

So  I  am  happy  to  have  known  that  time  across  the  sea 

When  you  were  weighing  twenty  stone  and  I  weighed  ten  stone  three. 


RED 

ANY  color,  so  long  as  it 's  red, 

Is  the  color  that  suits  me  best, 
Though  I  will  allow  there  is  much  to  be  said 

For  yellow  and  green  and  the  rest; 
But  the  feeble  tints  which  some  affect 

In  the  things  they  make  or  buy 
Have  never — I  say  it  with  all  respect — 

Appealed  to  my  critical  eye. 

There  's  that  in  red  that  warmeth  the  blood, 

And  quickeneth  a  man  within, 
And  bringeth  to  speedy  and  perfect  bud 

The  germs  of  original  sin; 
So,  though  I  'm  properly  born  and  bred, 

I  '11  own,  with  a  certain  zest, 
That  any  color,  so  long  as  it 's  red, 

Is  the  color  that  suits  me  best. 


94  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

For  where  is  the  color  that  can  compare 

With  the  blush  of  a  buxom  lass; 
Or  where  such  warmth  as  of  the  hair 

Of  the  genuine  white  horse  class? 
And,  lo!   reflected  within  this  cup 

Of  cheery  Bordeaux  I  see 
What  inspiration  girdeth  me  up, — 

Yes,  red  is  the  color  for  me  I 

Through  acres  and  acres  of  art  I  Ve  strayed 

In  Italy,  Germany,  France; 
On  many  a  picture  a  master  has  made 

I  've  squandered  a  passing  glance: 
Marines  I  hate,  madonnas  and 

Those  Dutch  freaks  I  detest; 
But  the  peerless  daubs  of  my  native  land,— 

They  're  red,  and  I  like  them  best. 

'T  is  little  I  care  how  folk  deride, — 

I  'm  backed  by  the  West,  at  least; 
And  we  are  free  to  say  that  we  can't  abide 

The  tastes  that  obtain  down  East; 
And  we  're  mighty  proud  to  have  it  said 

That  here  in  the  versatile  West 
Most  any  color,  so  long  as  it 's  red, 

Is  the  color  that  suits  us  best. 


AT  CHEYENNE 

YOUNG  Lochinvar  came  in-  from  the  West, 
With  fringe  on  his  trousers  and  fur  on  his  vest; 
The  width  of  his  hat-brim  could  nowhere  be  beat, 
His  No.  10  brogans  were  chuck  full  of  feet, 
His  girdle  was  horrent  with  pistols  and  things, 
And  he  flourished  a  handful  of  aces  on  kings. 


THE   PNEUMOGASTRIC   NERVE  95 

The  fair  Mariana  sate  watching  a  star, 

When  who  should  turn  up  but  the  young  Lochinvar! 

Her  pulchritude  gave  him  a  pectoral  glow, 

And  he  reined  up  his  hoss  with  stentorian  "Whoa!" 

Then  turned  on  the  maiden  a  rapturous  grin, 

And  modestly  asked  if  he  might  n't  step  in. 

With  presence  of  mind  that  was  marvellous  quite, 
The  fair  Mariana  replied  that  he  might; 
So  in  through  the  portal  rode  young  Lochinvar, 
Pre-empted  the  claim,  and  cleaned  out  the  bar. 
Though  the  justice  allowed  he  wa'n't  wholly  to  blame, 
He  taxed  him  ten  dollars  and  costs,  just  the  same. 


THE  PNEUMOGASTRIC  NERVE 

UPON  an  average,  twice  a  week, 

When  anguish  clouds  my  brow, 
My  good  physician  friend  I  seek 

To  know  "what  ails  me  now." 
He  taps  me  on  the  back  and  chest, 

And  scans  my  tongue  for  bile, 
And  lays  an  ear  against  my  breast 

And  listens  there  awhile; 
Then  is  he  ready  to  admit 

That  all  he  can  observe 
Is  something  wrong  inside,  to  wit: 

My  pneumogastric  nerve! 

Now,  when  these  Latin  names  within 

Dyspeptic  hulks  like  mine 
Go  wrong,  a  fellow  should  begin 

To  draw  what's  called  the  line. 
It  seems,  however,  that  this  same, 

Which  in  my  hulks  abounds, 
Is  not,  despite  its  awful  name, 

So  fatal  as  it  sounds; 


96  WESTERN  AND    OTHER  VERSE 

Yet  of  all  torments  known  to  me, 
I  '11  say  without  reserve, 

There  is  no  torment  like  to  thee, 
Thou  pneumogastric  nerve! 

This  subtle,  envious  nerve  appears 

To  be  a  patient  foe, — 
It  waited  nearly  forty  years 

Its  chance  to  lay  me  low; 
Then,  like  some  blithering  blast  of  hell, 

It  struck  this  guileless  bard, 
And  in  that  evil  hour  I  fell 

Prodigious  far  and  hard. 
Alas!   what  things  I  dearly  love — 

Pies,  puddings,  and  preserves — 
Are  sure  to  rouse  the  vengeance  of 

All  pneumogastric  nerves! 

Oh  that  I  could  remodel  man! 

I  'd  end  these  cruel  pains 
By  hitting  on  a  different  plan 

From  that  which  now  obtains. 
The  stomach,  greatly  amplified, 

Anon  should  occupy 
The  all  of  that  domain  inside 

Where  heart  and  lungs  now  lie. 
But,  first  of  all,  I  should  depose 

That  diabolic  curve 
And  author  of  my  thousand  woes, 

The  pneumogastric  nerve! 


TELKA 

THROUGH  those  golden  summer  days 
Our  twin  flocks  were  wont  to  graze 
On  the  hillside,  which  the  sun 
Rested  lovingly  upon, — 
Telka's  flock  and  mine;   and  we 


TELKA  97 


Sung  our  songs  in  rapturous  glee, 
Idling  in  the  pleasant  shade 
Which  the  solemn  Yew-tree  made, 
While  the  Brook  anear  us  played, 
And  a  white  Rose,  ghost-like,  grew 
In  the  shadow  of  the  Yew. 

Telka  loved  me  passing  well; 
How  I  loved  her  none  can  tell! 
How  I  love  her  none  may  know,— 
Oh,  that  man  loves  woman  so! 
When  she  was  not  at  my  side, 
Loud  my  heart  in  anguish  cried, 
And  my  lips,  till  she  replied. 
Yet  they  think  to  silence  me, — 
As  if  love  could  silenced  be! 
Fool  were  I,  and  fools  were  they! 
Still  I  wend  my  lonely  way, 
"Telka/'  evermore  I  cry; 
Answrer  me  the  woods  and  sky, 
And  the  weary  years  go  by. 

Telka,  she  was  passing  fair; 
And  the  glory  of  her  hair 
Was  such  glory  as  the  sun 
With  his  blessing  casts  upon 
Yonder  lonely  mountain  height, 
Lifting  up  to  bid  good-night 
To  her  sovereign  in  the  west, 
Sinking  wearily  to  rest, 
Drowsing  in  that  golden  sea 
Where  the  realms  of  Dreamland  be0 

So  our  love  to  fulness  grew, 
Whilst  beneath  the  solemn  Yew 
Ghost-like  paled  the  Rose  of  white, 
As  it  were  some  fancied  sight 
Blanched  it  with  a  dread  affright. 
Telka,  she  was  passing  fair; 
And  our  peace  was  perfect  there 


98  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Till,  enchanted  by  her  smile, 
Lurked  the  South  Wind  there  awhile 
Underneath  that  hillside  tree 
Where  with  singing  idled  we, 
And  I  heard  the  South  Wind  say 
Flattering  words  to  her  that  day 
Of  a  city  far  away. 
But  the  Yew-tree  crouched  as  though 
It  were  like  to  whisper  No 
To  the  words  the  South  wind  said 
As  he  smoothed  my  Telka's  head. 
And  the  Brook,  all  pleading,  cried 
To  the  dear  one  at  my  side: 
"Linger  always  where  I  am; 
Stray  not  thence,  O  cosset  lamb! 
Wander  not  where  shadows  deep 
On  the  treacherous  quicksands  sleep, 
And  the  haunted  waters  leap; 
Be  thou  ware  the  waves  that  flow 
Toward  the  prison  pool  below, 
Where,  beguiled  from  yonder  sky, 
Captive  moonbeams  shivering  lie, 
And  at  dawn  of  morrow  die." 
So  the  Brook  to  Telka  cried, 
But  my  Telka  naught  replied; 
And,  as  in  a  strange  affright, 
Paled  the  Rose  a  ghostlier  white. 

When  anon  the  North  Wind  came, — > 
Rudely  blustering  Telka's  name, 
And  he  kissed  the  leaves  that  grew 
Round  about  the  trembling  Yew, — 
Kissed  and  romped  till,  blushing  red, 
All  one  day  in  terror  fled, 
And  the  white  Rose  hung  her  head; 
Coming  to  our  trysting  spot, 
Long  I  called;   she  answered  not. 
"Telka!"   pleadingly  I  cried 
Up  and  down  the  mountain-side 
Where  we  twain  were  wont  to  bide. 


TELKA  99 

There  were  those  who  thought  that  I 
Could  be  silenced  with  a  lie, 
And  they  told  me  Telka's  name 
Should  be  spoken  now  with  shame; 
''She  is  lost  to  us  and  thee,"— 
That  is  what  they  said  to  me. 

"Is  my  Telka  lost?"   quoth  I. 
"On  this  hilltop  shall  I  cry, 
So  that  she  may  hear  and  then 
Find  her  way  to  me  again. 
The  South  Wind  spoke  a  lie  that  day; 
All  deceived,  she  lost  her  way; 
Yonder  where  the  shadows  sleep 
'Mongst  the  haunted  waves  that  leap 
Over  treacherous  quicksands  deep, 
And  where  captive  moonbeams  lie 
Doomed  at  morrow's  dawn  to  die,. 
She  is  lost,  and  that  is  all; 
I  will  search  for  her,  and  call." 

Summer  comes  and  winter  goes, 
Buds  the  Yew  and  blooms  the  Rose; 
All  the  others  are  anear, — 
Only  Telka  is  not  here! 
Gone  the  peace  and  love  I  knew 
Sometime  'neath  the  hillside  Yew; 
And  the  Rose,  that  mocks  me  so, 
I  had  crushed  it  long  ago 
But  that  Telka  loved  it  then, 
And  shall  soothe  its  terror  when 
She  comes  back  to  me  again. 
Call  I,  seek  I  everywhere 
For  my  Telka,  passing  fair. 

It  is,  oh,  so  many  a  year 

I  have  called!    She  does  not  hear, 

Yet  nor  feared  nor  worn  am  I; 

For  I  know  that  if  I  cry 

She  shall  sometime  hear  my  call. 


100  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

She  is  lost,  and  that  is  all, — 
She  is  lost  in  some  far  spot; 
I  have  searched,  and  found  it  not. 
Could  she  hear  me  calling,  then 
Would  she  come  to  me  again; 
For  she  loved  me  passing  well, — 
How  I  love  her  none  can  tell! 
That  is  why  these  years  I  've  cried 
"Telka!"   on  this  mountain-side. 
"Telka!"   still  I,  pleading,  cry; 
Answer  me  the  woods  and  sky, 
And  the  lonely  years  go  by. 

On  an  evening  dark  and  chill 
Came  a  shadow  up  the  hill, — 
Came  a  spectre,  grim  and  white 
As  a  ghost  that  walks  the  night, 
Grim  and  bowed,  and  with  the  cry 
Of  a  wretch  about  to  die, — 
Came  and  fell  and  cried  to  me: 
"It  is  Telka  come!"   said  she. 
So  she  fell  and  so  she  cried 
On  that  lonely  mountain-side 
Where  was  Telka  wont  to  bide. 

"Who  hath  bribed  those  lips  to  lie? 
Telka's  face  was  fair,"  quoth  I; 
"Thine  is  furrowed  with  despair. 
There  is  winter  in  thy  hair; 
But  upon  her  beauteous  head 
Was  there  summer  glory  shed, — 
Such  a  glory  as  the  sun, 
When  his  daily  course  is  run, 
Smiles  upon  this  mountain  height 
As  he  kisses  it  good-night. 
There  was  music  in  her  tone, 
Misery  in  thy  voice  alone. 
They  have  bid  thee  lie  to  me. 
Let  me  pass!     Thou  art  not  she! 
Let  my  sorrow  sacred  be 
Underneath  this  trysting  tree!" 


PLAINT   OF   THE   MISSOURI    'COON  101 

So  in  wrath  I  went  my  way, 
And  they  came  another  day, — 
Came  another  day,  and  said: 
"Hush  thy  cry,  for  she  is  dead. 
Yonder  on  the  mountain-side 
She  is  buried  where  she  died, 
Where  you  twain  were  wont  to  bide* 
Where  she  came  and  fell  and  cried 
Pardon  that  thy  wrath  denied; 
And  above  her  bosom  grows 
As  in  mockery  the  Rose: 
It  was  white;   but  now  't  is  red, 
And  in  shame  it  bows  its  head 
Over  sinful  Telka  dead." 

So  they  thought  to  silence  me, — 
As  if  love  could  silenced  be! 
Fool  were  I,  and  fools  were  they! 
Scornfully  I  went  my  way, 
And  upon  the  mountain-side 
"Telka!"    evermore  I  cried. 
"Telka!"   evermore  I  cry; 
Answer  me  the  woods  and  sky: 
So  the  lonely  years  go  by. 

She  is  lost,  and  that  is  all; 
Sometime  she  shall  hear  my  call, 
Hear  my  pleading  call,  and  then 
Find  her  way  to  me  again. 


PLAINT  OF  THE  MISSOURI  'COON  IN  THE   BERLIN 
ZOOLOGICAL  GARDENS 

FRIEND,  by  the  way  you  hump  yourself  you  're  from  the  States,  I 

know, 

And  born  in  old  Mizzoorah,  where  the  'coons  in  plenty  grow. 
I,  too,  am  native  of  that  clime;   but  harsh,  relentless  fate 
Has  doomed  me  to  an  exile  far  from  that  noble  State; 


102 


WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 


And  I,  who  used  to  climb  around,  and  swing  from  tree  to  tree, 
Now  lead  a  life  of  ignominious  ease,  as  you  can  see. 
Have  pity,  O  compatriot  mine!   and  bide  a  season  near, 
While  I  unfurl  a  dismal  tale  to  catch  your  friendly  ear. 

My  pedigree  is  noble:   they  used  my  grandsire's  skin 

To  piece  a  coat  for  Patterson  to  warm  himself  within, — 

Tom  Patterson,  of  Denver;   no  ermine  can  compare 

With  the  grizzled  robe  that  Democratic  statesman  loves  to  wear. 

Of  such  a  grandsire  I  am  come;   and  in  the  County  Cole 

All  up  an  ancient  cottonwood  our  family  had  its  hole. 

We  envied  not  the  liveried  pomp  nor  proud  estate  of  kings, 

As  we  hustled  round  from  day  to  day  in  search  of  bugs  and  things. 

And  when  the  darkness  fell  around,  a  mocking-bird  was  nigh, 
Inviting  pleasant,  soothing  dreams  with  his  sweet  lullaby; 
And  sometimes  came  the  yellow  dog  to  brag  around  all  night 
That  nary  'coon  could  wallop  him  in  a  stand-up  barrel  fight. 
We  simply  smiled  and  let  him  howl,  for  all  Mizzoorians  know 
That  ary  'coon  can  best  a  dog,  if  the  coon  gets  half  a  show; 
But  we  'd  nestle  close  and  shiver  when  the  mellow  moon  had  ris'n, 
And  the  hungry  nigger  sought  our  lair  in  hopes  to  make  us  his'n. 

Raised  as  I  was,  it 's  hardly  strange  I  pine  for  those  old  days; 
I  cannot  get  acclimated,  or  used  to  German  ways. 
The  victuals  that  they  give  me  here  may  all  be  very  fine 
For  vulgar,  common  palates,  but  they  will  not  do  for  mine. 
The  'coon  that 's  been  accustomed  to  stanch  Democratic  cheer 
Will  not  put  up  with  onion  tarts  and  sausage  steeped  in  beer! 
No;   let  the  rest,  for  meat  and  drink,  accede  to  slavish  terms, 
But  send  me  back  from  whence  I  came,  and  let  me  grub  for  worms ! 

They  come,  these  gaping  Teutons  do,  on  Sunday  afternoons, 
And  wonder  what  I  am, — alas,  there  are  no  German  'coons! 
For  if  there  were,  I  still  might  swing  at  home  from  tree  to  tree, 
The  symbol  of  Democracy,  that 's  woolly,  blithe,  and  free. 
And  yet  for  what  my  captors  are  I  would  not  change  my  lot, 
For  /  have  tasted  liberty,  these  others,  they  have  not; 
So,  even  caged,  the  Democratic  'coon  more  glory  feels 
Than  the  conscript  German  puppets  with  their  swords  about  their 
heels. 


THE    PARTRIDGE  103 

Well,  give  my  love  to  Crittenden,  to  Clardy,  and  O'Neill, 
To  Jasper  Burke  and  Colonel  Jones,  and  tell  'em  how  I  feel; 
My  compliments  to  Cockrill,  Stephens,  Switzler,  Francis,  Vest, 
Bill  Nelson,  J.  West  Goodwin,  Jedge  Broadhead,  and  the  rest. 
Bid  them  be  steadfast  in  the  faith,  and  pay  no  heed  at  all 
To  Joe  McCullagh's  badinage  or  Chauncey  Filley's  gall; 
And  urge  them  to  retaliate  for  what  I  'm  suffering  here 
By  cinching  all  the  alien  class  that  wants  its  Sunday  beer. 


THE  PARTRIDGE 

As  beats  the  sun  from  mountain  crest, 

With  "  Pretty,  pretty," 
Cometh  the  partridge  from  her  nest. 
The  flowers  threw  kisses  sweet  to  her 
(For  all  the  flowers  that  bloomed  knew  her) ; 
Yet  hasteneth  she  to  mine  and  me, — 

Ah,  pretty,  pretty! 

Ah,  dear  little  partridge! 

And  when  I  hear  the  partridge  cry 

So  pretty,  pretty, 
Upon  the  house-top  breakfast  I. 
She  comes  a-chirping  far  and  wride. 
And  swinging  from  the  mountain-side 
I  see  and  hear  the  dainty  dear, — 

Ah,  pretty,  pretty! 

Ah,  dear  little  partridge! 

Thy  nest 's  inlaid  with  posies  rare, 

And  pretty,  pretty, 
Bloom  violet,  rose,  and  lily  there; 
The  place  is  full  of  balmy  dew 
(The  tears  of  flowers  in  love  with  you!); 
And  one  and  all,  impassioned,  call, 

"O  pretty,  pretty! 

O  dear  little  partridge!" 


104  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Thy  feathers  they  are  soft  and  sleek,— 

So  pretty,  pretty! 

Long  is  thy  neck,  and  small  thy  beak, 
The  color  of  thy  plumage  far 
More  bright  than  rainbow  colors  are. 
Sweeter  than  dove  is  she  I  love, — 

My  pretty,  pretty! 

My  dear  little  partridge! 

When  comes  the  partridge  from  the  tree, 

So  pretty,  pretty, 
And  sings  her  little  hymn  to  me, 
Why,  all  the  world  is  cheered  thereby, 
The  heart  leaps  up  into  the  eye, 
And  Echo  then  gives  back  again 
Our  "Pretty,  pretty!" 
Our  "Dear  little  partridge!" 

Admitting  thee  most  blest  of  all, 

And  pretty,  pretty, 

The  birds  come  with  thee  at  thy  call; 
In  flocks  they  come,  and  round  thee  play, 
And  this  is  what  they  seem  to  say: — 
They  say,  and  sing,  each  feathered  thing, 

"Ah,  pretty,  pretty! 

Ah,  dear  little  partridge!" 


CORINTHIAN  HALL 

CORINTHIAN  HALL  is  a  tumble-down  place, 
Which  some  finical  folks  have  pronounced  a  disgrace; 
But  once  was  a  time  when  Corinthian  Hall 
Excited  the  rapture  and  plaudits  of  all, 

With  its  carpeted  stairs, 

And  its  new  yellow  chairs, 
And  its  stunning  ensemble  of  citified  airs. 
Why,  the  Atchison  Champion  said  Jt  was  the  best 
Of  Thespian  temples  extant  in  the  West. 


CORINTHIAN   HALL  105 

It  was  new,  and  was  ours, — that  was  ages  ago, 

Before  opry  had  spoiled  the  legitimate  show, — 

It  was  new,  and  was  ours!     We  could  toss  back  the  jeers 

Our  rivals  had  launched  at  our  city  for  years. 

Corinthian  Hall, 

Why,  it  discounted  all 
Other  halls  in  the  Valley,  and  well  I  recall 
The  night  of  the  opening;   from  near  and  afar 
Came  the  crowd  to  see  Toodles  performed  by  De  Bar. 

Oh,  those  days  they  were  palmy,  and  never  again 
Shall  earth  see  such  genius  as  gladdened  us  then; 
For  actors  were  actors,  and  each  one  knew  how 
To  whoop  up  his  art  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow. 
He  'd  a  tragedy  air,  and  wore  copious  hair; 
And  when  he  ate  victuals,  he  ordered  'em  rare. 
Dame  Fortune  ne'er  feazed  him, — in  fact,  never  could 
When  liquor  was  handy  and  walking  was  good. 

And  the  shows  in  those  days!     Ah,  how  well  I  recall 
The  shows  that  I  saw  in  Corinthian  Hall! 
Maggie  Mitchell  and  Lotty  were  then  in  their  prime; 
And  as  for  Jane  Coombs,  she  was  simply  sublime; 
And  I  'm  ready  to  swear  there  is  none  could  compare 
With  Breslau  in  Borgia,  supported  by  Fair; 
While  in  passionate  roles  it  was  patent  to  us 
That  the  great  John  A.  Stevens  was  ne  ultra  plus. 

And  was  there  demand  for  the  tribute  of  tears, 

We  had  sweet  Charlotte  Thompson  those  halcyon  years, 

And  wee  Katie  Putnam.     The  savants  allow 

That  the  like  of  Kate  Fisher  ain't  visible  now. 

What  artist  to-day  have  we  equal  to  Rae, 

Or  to  sturdy  Jack  Langrishe?     God  rest  'em,  I  say! 

And  when  died  Buchanan,  the  "St.  Jo  Gazette" 

Opined  that  the  sun  of  our  drama  had  set. 

Corinthian  Hall  was  devoted  to  song 

When  the  Barnabee  concert  troupe  happened  along, 


106  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Or  Ossian  E.  Dodge,  or  the  Comical  Brown, 

Or  the  Holmans  with  William  H.  Crane  struck  our  town; 

But  the  one  special  card 

That  hit  us  all  hard 

Was  Caroline  Richings  and  Peter  Bernard; 
And  the  bells  of  the  Bergers  still  ring  in  my  ears; 
And,  oh,  how  I  laughed  at  Sol  Russell  those  years! 

The  Haverly  Minstrels  were  boss  in  those  days, 

And  our  critics  accorded  them  columns  of  praise; 

They'd  handsome  mustaches  and  big  cluster  rings, 

And  their  shirt  fronts  were  blazing  with  diamonds  and  things: 

They  gave  a  parade,  and  sweet  music  they  made 

Every  evening  in  front  of  the  house  where  they  played. 

'Twixt  posters  and  hand-bills  the  town  was  agog 

For  Primrose  and  West  in  their  great  statue  clog. 

Many  years  intervene,  yet  I  'm  free  to  maintain 

That  I  doted  on  Chanfrau,  McWade,  and  Frank  Frayne; 

Tom  Stivers,  the  local,  declared  for  a  truth 

That  Mayo  as  Hamlet  was  better  than  Booth: 

While  in  roles  that  were  thrillin',  involving  much  killin', 

Jim  Wallick  loomed  up  our  ideal  of  a  villain; 

Mrs.  Bowers,  Alvin  Joslin,  Frank  Aiken, — they  all 

Earned  their  titles  to  fame  in  Corinthian  Hall. 

But  Time,  as  begrudging  the  glory  that  fell 
On  the  spot  I  revere  and  remember  so  well, 
Spent  his  spite  on  the  timbers,  the  plaster,  and  paint, 
And  breathed  on  them  all  his  morbiferous  taint; 
So  the  trappings  of  gold  and  the  gear  manifold 
Got  gangrened  with  rust  and  rheumatic  with  mould, 
And  we  saw  dank  decay  and  oblivion  fall, 
Like  vapors  of  night,  on  Corinthian  Hall. 

When  the  gas  is  ablaze  in  the  opry  at  night, 
And  the  music  goes  floating  on  billows  of  light, 
Why,  I  often  regret  that  I  'm  grown  to  a  man, 
And  I  pine  to  be  back  where  my  mission  began, 


THE   RED,  RED    WEST  107 

And  I  'm  fain  to  recall 

Reminiscences  all 

That  come  with  the  thought  of  Corinthian  Hall, — 
To  hear  and  to  see  what  delighted  me  then, 
And  to  revel  in  raptures  of  boyhood  again. 

Though  Corinthian  Hall  is  a  tumble-down  place, 
Which  some  finical  folks  have  pronounced  a  disgrace, 
There  is  one  young  old  boy,  quite  as  worthy  as  they, 
Who,  aweary  of  art  as  expounded  to-day, 

Would  surrender  what  gold 

He  's  amassed  to  behold 
A  tithe  of  the  wonderful  doings  of  old, 
A  glimpse  of  the  glories  that  used  to  enthrall 
Our  crime  de  la  creme  in  Corinthian  Hall. 


THE  RED,   RED  WEST 

I  'VE  travelled  in  heaps  of  countries,  and  studied  all  kinds  of  art, 
Till  there  is  n't  a  critic  or  connoisseur  who  's  properly  deemed  so 

smart ; 

And  I  'm  free  to  say  that  the  grand  results  of  my  explorations  show 
That  somehow  paint  gets  redder  the  farther  out  West  I  go. 

I  've  sipped  the  voluptuous  sherbet  that  the  Orientals  serve, 
And  I  've  felt  the  glow  of  red  Bordeaux  tingling  each  separate 

nerve ; 

I  've  sampled  your  classic  Massic  under  an  arbor  green, 
And  I  've  reeked  with  song  a  whole  night  long  over  a  brown  poteen. 

The  stalwart  brew  of  the  land  o'  cakes,  the  schnapps  of  the  fru 
gal  Dutch, 

The  much-praised  wine  of  the  distant  Rhine,  and  the  beer  praised 
overmuch, 

The  ale  of  dear  old  London,  and  the  port  of  Southern  climes, — 

All,  ad  infin.,  have  I  taken  in  a  hundred  thousand  times. 


108  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Yet,  as  I  afore-mentioned,  these  other  charms  are  naught 
Compared  with  the  paramount  gorgeousness  with  which  the  West 

is  fraught; 
For  Art  and  Nature  are  just  the  same  in  the  land  where  the  porker 

grows, 
And  the  paint  keeps  getting  redder  the  farther  out  West  one  goes. 

Our  savants  have  never  discovered  the  reason-  why  this  is  so, 
And  ninety  per  cent,  of  the  laymen  care  less  than  the  savants  know; 
It  answers  every  purpose  that  this  is  manifest: 
The  paint  keeps  getting  redder  the  farther  you  go  out  West. 

Give  me  no  home  'neath  the  pale  pink  dome  of  European  skies, 
No  cot  for  me  by  the  salmon  sea  that  far  to  the  southward  lies; 
But  away  out  West  I  would  build  my  nest  on  top  of  a  carmine  hill, 
Where  I  can  paint,  without  restraint,  creation  redder  still! 


THE  THREE  KINGS  OF  COLOGNE 

FROM  out  Cologne  there  came  three  kings 
To  worship  Jesus  Christ,  their  King. 

To  Him  they  sought  fine  herbs  they  brought, 
And  many  a  beauteous  golden  thing; 

They  brought  their  gifts  to  Bethlehem  town, 

And  in  that  manger  set  them  down. 

Then  spake  the  first  king,  and  he  said: 
"O  Child,  most  heavenly,  bright,  and  fair! 

I  bring  this  crown  to  Bethlehem  town 
For  Thee,  and  only  Thee,  to  wear; 

So  give  a  heavenly  crown  to  me 

When  I  shall  come  at  last  to  Thee!" 

The  second,  then.     "I  bring  Thee  here 
This  royal  robe,  O  Child!"   he  cried; 

"Of  silk  't  is  spun,  and  such  an  one 
There  is  not  in  the  world  beside; 

So  in  the  day  of  doom  requite 

Me  with  a  heavenly  robe  of  white!" 


IPSWICH  109 

The  third  king  gave  his  gift,  and  quoth: 
"Spikenard  and  myrrh  to  Thee  I  bring, 

And  with  these  twain  would  I  most  fain 
Anoint  the  body  of  my  King; 

So  may  their  incense  sometime  rise 

To  plead  for  me  in  yonder  skies!" 

Thus  spake  the  three  kings  of  Cologne, 
That  gave  their  gifts,  and  went  their  way; 

And  now  kneel  I  in  prayer  hard  by 
The  cradle  of  the  Child  to-day; 

Nor  crown,  nor  robe,  nor  spice  I  bring 

As  offering  unto  Christ,  my  King. 

Yet  have  I  brought  a  gift  the  Child 

May  not  despise,  however  small; 
For  here  I  lay  my  heart  to-day, 

And  it  is  full  of  love  to  all. 
Take  Thou  the  poor  but  loyal  thing, 
My  only  tribute,  Christ,  my  King! 


IPSWICH 

IN  Ipswich  nights  are  cool  and  fair, 

And  the  voice  that  comes  from  the  yonder  sea 
Sings  to  the  quaint  old  mansions  there 

Of  "the  time,  the  time  that  used  to  be"; 
And  the  quaint  old  mansions  rock  and  groan, 
And  they  seem  to  say  in  an  undertone, 
With  half  a  sigh  and  with  half  a  moan: 

"It  was,  but  it  never  again  will  be." 

In  Ipswich  witches  weave  at  night 
Their  magic  spells  with  impish  glee; 

They  shriek  and  laugh  in  their  demon  flight 

From  the  old  Main  House  to  the  frightened  sea. 


110  WESTERN  AND    OTHER   VERSE 

And  ghosts  of  eld  come  out  to  weep 
Over  the  town  that  is  fast  asleep; 
And  they  sob  and  they  wail,  as  on  they  creep: 
"It  was,  but  it  never  again  will  be." 

In  Ipswich  riseth  Heart-Break  Hill 

Over  against  the  calling  sea; 
And  through  the  nights  so  deep  and  chill 

Watcheth  a  maiolen  constantly, — 
Watcheth  alone,  nor  seems  to  hear 
Over  the  roar  of  the  waves  anear 
The  pitiful  cry  of  a  far-off  year: 

"It  was,  but  it  never  again  will  be." 

In  Ipswich  once  a  witch  I  knew, — 
An  artless  Saxon  witch  was  she; 
By  that  flaxen  hair  and  those  eyes  of  blue, 

Sweet  was  the  spell  she  cast  on  me. 
Alas!   but  the  years  have  wrought  me  ill, 
And  the  heart  that  is  old  and  battered  and  chill 
Seeketh  again  on  Heart-Break  Hill 
What  was,  but  never  again  can  be. 

Dear  Anna,  I  would  not  conjk^e  down 
The  ghost  that  cometh  to  solace  me; 

I  love  to  think  of  old  Ipswich  town, 

Where  somewhat  better  than  friends  were  we; 

For  with  every  thought  of  the  dear  old  place 

Cometh  again  the  tender  grace 

Of  a  Saxon  witch's  pretty  face, 
As  it  was,  and  is,  and  ever  shall  be. 


BILL'S  TENOR  AND  MY  BASS 

BILL  was  short  and  dapper,  while  I  was  thin  and  tall; 

I  had  flowin'  whiskers,  but  Bill  had  none  at  all; 

Clothes  would  never  seem  to  set  so  nice  on  me  as  him, — 
Folks  used  to  laugh,  and  say  I  was  too  powerful  slim, — 


BILL'S   TENOR  AND   MY   BASS  111 

But  Bill's  clothes  fit  him  like  the  paper  on  the  wall; 
And  we  were  the  sparkin'est  beaus  in  all  the  place 
When  Bill  sung  tenor  and  I  sung  bass. 

Cyrus  Baker's  oldest  girl  was  member  of  the  choir, — 
Eyes  as  black  as  Kelsey's  cat,  and  cheeks  as  red  as  fire! 

She  had  the  best  sopranner  voice  I  think  I  ever  heard, — 

Sung  "Coronation,"  "Burlington,"  and  "Chiny"  like  a  bird; 
Never  done  better  than  with  Bill  a-standin'  nigh  'er, 

A-holdin'  of  her  hymn-book  so  she  would  n't  lose  the  place, 

When  Bill  sung  tenor  and  I  sung  bass. 

Then  there  was  Prudence  Hubbard,  so  cosey-like  and  fat, — 

She  sung  alto,  and  wore  a  pee- wee  hat; 

Beaued  her  around  one  winter,  and,  first  thing  I  knew, 
One  evenin'  on  the  portico  I  up  and  called  her  "Prue"! 

But,  sakes  alive!   she  did  n't  mind  a  little  thing  like  that; 
On  all  the  works  of  Providence  she  set  a  cheerful  face 
When  Bill  was  singin'  tenor  and  I  was  singin'  bass. 

Bill,  nevermore  we  two  shall  share  the  fun  we  used  to  then, 
Nor  know  the  comfort  and  the  peace  we  had  together  when 
We  lived  in  Massachusetts  in  the  good  old  courtin'  days, 
And  lifted  up  our  voices  in  psalms  and  hymns  of  praise. 
Oh,  how  I  wisht  that  I  could  live  them  happy  times  again! 
For  life,  as  we  boys  knew  it,  had  a  sweet,  peculiar  grace 
When  you  was  singin'  tenor  and  I  was  singin'  bass. 

The  music  folks  have  nowadays  ain't  what  it  used  to  be, 
Because  there  ain't  no  singers  now  on  earth  like  Bill  and  me. 
Why,  Lemuel  Bangs,  who  used  to  go  to  Springfield  twice  a  year, 
Admitted  that  for  singin'  Bill  and  me  had  not  a  peer 
When  Bill  went  soarin'  up  to  A  and  I  dropped  down  to  D! 
The  old  bull-fiddle  Beza  Dimmitt  played  war  n't  in  the  race 
'Longside  of  Bill's  high  tenor  and  my  sonorious  bass. 

Bill  moved  to  Californy  in  the  spring  of  '54, 

And  we  folks  that  used  to  know  him  never  knew  him  any  more; 
Then  Cyrus  Baker's  oldest  girl,  she  kind  o'  pined  a  spell, 
And,  hankerin'  after  sympathy,  it  naterally  befell 


112  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

That  she  married  Deacon  Pitkin's  boy,  who  kep'  the  general  store; 
And  so  the  years,  the  changeful  years,  have  rattled  on  apace 
Since  Bill  sung  tenor  and  I  sung  bass. 

As  I  was  settin'  by  the  stove  this  evenin'  after  tea, 
I  noticed  wife  kep'  hitchin'  close  and  closer  up  to  me; 

And  as  she  patched  the  gingham  frock  our  gran' child  wore  to-day, 

I  heerd  her  gin  a  sigh  that  seemed  to  come  from  fur  away. 
Could  n't  help  inquirin'  what  the  trouble  might  be; 

"Was  thinkin'  of  the  time,"  says  Prue,  a-breshin'  at  her  face, 

"When  Bill  sung  tenor  and  you  sung  bass." 


THE  "ST.   JO   GAZETTE" 

WHEN  I  helped  'em  run  the  local  on  the  "St.  Jo  Gazette," 
I  was  upon  familiar  terms  with  every  one  I  met; 
For  "items"  were  my  stock  in  trade  in  that  my  callow  time, 
Before  the  muses  tempted  me  to  try  my  hand  at  rhyme, — 

Before  I  found  in  verses 

Those  soothing,  gracious  mercies, 

Less  practical,  but  much  more  glorious  than  a  well-filled  purse  is. 
A  votary  of  Mammon,  I  hustled  round  and  sweat, 
And  helped  'em  run  the  local  on  the  "St.  Jo  Gazette." 

The  labors  of  the  day  began  at  half-past  eight  A.  M., 
For  the  farmers  came  in  early,  and  I  had  to  tackle  them; 
And  many  a  noble  bit  of  news  I  managed  to  acquire 
By  those  discreet  attentions  which  all  farmer-folk  admire, 

With  my  daily  commentary 

On  affairs  of  farm  and  dairy, 

The  tone  of  which  anon  with  subtle  pufferies  I  'd  vary, — 
Oh,  many  a  peck  of  apples  and  of  peaches  did  I  get 
When  I  helped  'em  run  the  local  on  the  "St.  Jo  Gazette." 

Dramatic  news  was  scarce,  but  when  a  minstrel  show  was  due, 
Why,  Milton  Tootle's  opera  house  was  then  my  rendezvous; 
Judge  Grubb  would  give  me  points  about  the  latest  legal  case 
And  Dr.  Runcie  let  me  print  his  sermons  when  I  'd  space ; 


THE  "ST.  jo  GAZETTE"  113 

Of  fevers,  fractures,  humors, 

Contusions,  fits,  and  tumors, 

Would  Dr.  Hall  or  Dr.  Baines  confirm  or  nail  the  rumors; 
From  Colonel  Dawes  what  railroad  news   there  was  I  used   to 

get- 
When  I  helped  'em  run  the  local  on  the  "St.  Jo  Gazette." 

For  "personals"  the  old  Pacific  House  was  just  the  place, — 
Pap  Abell  knew  the  pedigrees  of  all  the  human  race; 
And  when  he  'd  gi'n  up  all  he  had,  he  'd  drop  a  subtle  wink, 
And  lead  the  way  where  one  might  wet  one's  whistle  with  a  drink. 

Those  drinks  at  the  Pacific, 

When  days  were  sudorific, 
Were  what  Parisians  (pray  excuse  my  French!)  would  call  "mag- 

nifique"; 

And  frequently  an  invitation  to  a  meal  I  'd  get 
When  I  helped  'em  run  the  local  on  the  "St.  Jo  Gazette." 

And  when  in  rainy  weather  news  was  scarce  as  well  as  slow, 
To  Saxton's  bank  of  Hopkins'  store  for  items  would  I  go. 
The  jokes  which  Colonel  Saxton  told  were  old,  but  good  enough 
For  local  application  in  lieu  of  better  stuff; 
And  when  the  ducks  were  flying, 
Or  the  fishing  well  worth  trying — 
Gosh!  but  those  "sports"  at  Hopkins'  store  could  beat  the  world 

at  lying! 

And  I — I  printed  all  their  yarns,  though  not  without  regret, 
When  I  helped  'em  run  the  local  on  the  "St.  Jo  Gazette." 

For  squibs  political  I  'd  go  to  Colonel  Waller  Young, 

Or  Colonel  James   N.    Burnes,    the   "statesman   with   the   silver 

tongue"; 

Should  some  old  pioneer  take  sick  and  die,  why,  then  I  'd  call 
On  Frank  M.  Posegate  for  the  "life,"  and  Posegate  knew  'em  all. 

Lon  Tullar  used  to  pony 

Up  descriptions  that  were  tony 
Of  toilets  worn  at  party,  ball,  or  conversazione; 
For  the  ladies  were  addicted  to  the  style  called  "deckolett" 
When  I  helped  'em  run  the  local  on  the  "St.  Jo  Gazette." 


114  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

So  was  I  wont  my  daily  round  of  labor  to  pursue; 

And  when  came  night  I  found  that  there  was  still  more  work  to  do,- 

The  telegraph  to  edit,  yards  and  yards  of  proof  to  read, 

And  reprint  to  be  gathered  to  supply  the  printers'  greed. 

Oh,  but  it  takes  agility, 

Combined  with  versatility, 

To  run  a  country  daily  with  appropriate  ability! 
There  never  were  a  smarter  lot  of  editors,  I  '11  bet, 
Than  we  who  whooped  up  local  on  the  "St.  Jo  Gazette." 

Yes,  maybe  it  was  irksome;   maybe  a  discontent 

Rebellious  rose  amid  the  toil  I  daily  underwent. 

If  so,  I  don't  remember;   this  only  do  I  know, — 

My  thoughts  turn  ever  fondly  to  that  time  in  old  St.  Jo. 

The  years  that  speed  so  fleetly 

Have  blotted  out  completely 

All  else  than  that  which  still  remains  to  solace  me  so  sweetly; 
The  friendships  of  that  time, — ah,  me!   they  are  as  precious  yet 
As  when  I  was  a  local  on  the  "St.  Jo  Gazette." 


IN  AMSTERDAM 

MEYNHEER  Hans  Von  Der  Bloom  has  got 

A  majazin  in  Kalverstraat, 

Where  one  may  buy  for  sordid  gold 

Wares  quaint  and  curious,  new  and  old. 

Here  are  antiquities  galore, — 

The  jewels  which  Dutch  monarchs  wore, 

Swords,  teacups,  helmets,  platters,  clocks, 

Bright  Dresden  jars,  dull  Holland  crocks, 

And  all  those  joys  I  might  rehearse 

That  please  the  eye,  but  wreck  the  purse, 

I  most  admired  an  ancient  bed, 
With  ornate  carvings  at  its  head, — 
A  massive  frame  of  dingy  oak, 
Whose  curious  size  and  mould  bespoke 
Prodigious  age.     "How  much?"    I  cried. 


IN   AMSTERDAM  115 

"Ein  tousand  gildens,"  Hans  replied; 
And  then  the  honest  Dutchman  said 
A  king  once  owned  that  glorious  bed, — 
King  Fritz  der  Foorst,  of  blessed  fame, 
Had  owned  and  slept  within  the  same! 

Then  long  I  stood  and  mutely  gazed, 
By  reminiscent  splendors  dazed, 
And  I  had  bought  it  right  away, 
Had  I  the  wherewithal  to  pay. 
But,  lacking  of  the  needed  pelf, 
I  thus  discoursed  within  myself: 
"O  happy  Holland!  where  's  the  bliss 
That  can  approximate  to  this 
Possession  of  the  rare  antique 
Which  maniacs  hanker  for  and  seek  ? 
My  native  land  is  full  of  stuff 
That 's  good,  but  is  not  old  enough. 
Alas!   it  has  no  oaken  beds 
Wherein  have  slumbered  royal  heads, 
No  relic  on  whose  face  we  see 
The  proof  of  grand  antiquity." 

Thus  reasoned  I  a  goodly  spell 

Until,  perchance,  my  vision  fell 

Upon  a  trademark  at  the  head 

Of  Fritz  der  Foorst's  old  oaken  bed, — 

A  rampant  wolverine,  and  round 

This  strange  device  these  words  I  found: 

"Patent  Antique.     Birkey  &  Gay, 

Grand  Rapids,  Michigan,  U.  S.  A." 

At  present  I  'm  not  saying  much 
About  the  simple,  guileless  Dutch; 
And  as  it  were  a  loathsome  spot 
I  keep  away  from  Kalverstraat, 
Determined  when  I  want  a  bed 
In  which  hath  slept  a  royal  head 
I  '11  patronize  no  middleman, 
But  deal  direct  with  Michigan. 


116  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 


TO  THE  PASSING  SAINT 

As  to-night  you  came  your  way, 
Bearing  earthward  heavenly  joy, 

Tell  me,  O  dear  saint,  I  pray, 
Did  you  see  my  little  boy? 

By  some  fairer  voice  beguiled, 

Once  he  wandered  from  my  sight; 

He  is  such  a  little  child, 

He  should  have  my  love  this  night. 

It  has  been  so  many  a  year, — 
Oh,  so  many  a  year  since  then! 

Yet  he  was  so  very  dear, 
Surely  he  will  come  again. 

If  upon  your  way  you  see 
One  whose  beauty  is  divine, 

Will  you  send  him  back  to  me  ? 
He  is  lost,  and  he  is  mine. 


Tell  him  that  his  little  chair 

Nestles  where  the  sunbeams  meet, 

That  the  shoes  he  used  to  wear 
Yearn  to  kiss  his  dimpled  feet. 

Tell  him  of  each  pretty  toy 

That  was  wont  to  share  his  glee; 

Maybe  that  will  bring  my  boy 
Back  to  them  and  back  to  me. 


O  dear  saint,  as  on  you  go 

Through  the  glad  and  sparkling  frost, 
Bid  those  bells  ring  high  and  low 

For  a  little  child  that 's  lost! 


THE  FISHERMAN'S  FEAST  11' 

O  dear  saint,  that  blessest  men 

With  the  grace  of  Christmas  joy, 
Soothe  this  heart  with  love  again, — 

Give  me  back  my  little  boy! 


THE  FISHERMAN'S  FEAST 

OF  all  the  gracious  gifts  of  Spring, 

Is  there  another  can  surpass 
This  delicate,  voluptuous  thing,— 

This  dapple-green,  plump-shouldered  bass? 
Upon  a  damask  napkin  laid, 

What  exhalations  superfine 
Our  gustatory  nerves  pervade, 

Provoking  quenchless  thirsts  for  wine! 

The  ancients  loved  this  noble  fish; 

And,  coming  from  the  kitchen  fire 
All  piping  hot  upon  a  dish, 

What  raptures  did  he  not  inspire? 
"Fish  should  swim  twice,"  they  used  to  say, — 

Once  in  their  native,  vapid  brine, 
And  then  again,  a  better  way — 

You  understand;   fetch  on  the  wine! 

Ah,  dainty  monarch  of  the  flood, 

How  often  have  I  cast  for  you, 
How  often  sadly  seen  you  scud 

Where  weeds  and  water-lilies  grew! 
How  often  have  you  filched  my  bait, 

How  often  snapped  my  treacherous  line! 
Yet  here  I  have  you  on  this  plate, — 

You  shall  swim  twice,  and  now  in  wine. 

And  harkee,  gar£on!   let  the  blood 

Of  cobwebbed  years  be  spilled  for  him, — • 

Ay,  in  a  rich  Burgundian  flood 

This  piscatorial  pride  should  swim; 


118  WESTERN  AND   OTHER   VERSE 

So,  were  he  living,  he  would  say 
He  gladly  died  for  me  and  mine, 

And,  as  it  were  his  native  spray, 

He  'd  lash  the  sauce — what,  ho!  the  wine! 

I  would  it  were  ordained  for  me 

To  share  your  fate,  O  finny  friend! 
I  surely  were  not  loath  to  be 

Reserved  for  such  a  noble  end; 
For  when  old  Chronos,  gaunt  and  grim, 

At  last  reels  in  his  ruthless  line, 
What  were  my  ecstasy  to  swim 

In  wine,  in  wine,  in  glorious  wine! 

Well,  here  's  a  health  to  you,  sweet  Spring! 

And,  prithee,  whilst  I  stick  to  earth, 
Come  hither  every  year  and  bring 

The  boons  provocative  of  mirth; 
And  should  your  stock  of  bass  run  low, 

However  much  I  might  repine, 
I  think  I  might  survive  the  blow, 

If  plied  with  wine  and  still  more  wine! 


THE  ONION  TART 

OF  tarts  there  be  a  thousand  kinds, 

So  versatile  the  art, 
And,  as  we  all  have  different  minds, 

Each  has  his  favorite  tart; 
But  those  which  most  delight  the  rest 

Methinks  should  suit  me  not: 
The  onion  tart  doth  please  me  best, — 

Ach,  Gott!   mein  lieber  Gott! 

Where  but  in  Deutschland  can  be  found 

This  boon  of  which  I  sing  ? 
Who  but  a  Teuton  could  compound 

This  sui  generis  thing  ? 


THE    ONION   TART  119 

None  with  the  German  frau  can  vie 

In  arts  cuisine,  I  wot, 
Whose  summum  bonum  breeds  the  sigh, 

"Ach,  Gott!   mein  lieber  Gott!" 

You  slice  the  fruit  upon  the  dough, 

And  season  to  the  taste, 
Then  in  an  oven  (not  too  slow) 

The  viand  should  be  placed; 
And  when  't  is  done,  upon  a  plate 

You  serve  it  piping  hot, 
Your  nostrils  and  your  eyes  dilate, — - 

Ach,  Gott!   mein  lieber  Gott! 

It  sweeps  upon  the  sight  and  smell 

In  overwhelming  tide, 
And  then  the  sense  of  taste  as  well 

Betimes  is  gratified: 
Three  noble  senses  drowned  in  bliss! 

I  prithee  tell  me,  what 
Is  there  beside  compares  with  this? 

Ach,  Gott!   mein  lieber  Gott! 

For  if  the  fruit  be  proper  young, 

And  if  the  crust  be  good, 
How  shall  they  melt  upon  the  tongue 

Into  a  savory  flood! 
How  seek  the  Mecca  down  below, 

And  linger  round  that  spot, 
Entailing  weeks  and  months  of  woe,— - 

Ach,  Gott!   mein  lieber  Gott! 

If  Nature  gives  men  appetites 

For  things  that  won't  digest, 
Why,  let  them  eat  whatso  delights, 

And  let  her  stand  the  rest; 
And  though  the  sin  involve  the  cost 

Of  Carlsbad,  like  as  not 
'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, — 

Ach,  Gott!   mein  lieber  Gott! 


120  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Beyond  the  vast,  the  billowy  tide, 

Where  my  compatriots  dwell, 
All  kinds  of  victuals  have  I  tried, 

All  kinds  of  drinks,  as  well; 
But  nothing  known  to  Yankee  art 

Appears  to  reach  the  spot 
Like  this  Teutonic  onion  tart, — 

Ach,  Gott!   mein  lieber  Gott! 

So,  though  I  quaff  of  Carlsbad's  tide 

As  full  as  I  can  hold, 
And  for  complete  reform  inside 

Plank  down  my  hoard  of  gold, 
Remorse  shall  not  consume  my  heart, 

Nor  sorrow  vex  my  lot, 
For  I  have  eaten  onion  tart, — 

Ach,  Gott!   mein  lieber  Gott! 


GRANDMA'S  BOMBAZINE 

IT  's  everywhere  that  women  fair  invite  and  please  my  eye, 
And  that  on  dress  I  lay  much  stress  I  can't  and  sha'  n't  deny: 
The  English  dame  who  's  all  aflame  with  divers  colors  bright, 
The  Teuton  belle,  the  ma'moiselle, — all  give  me  keen  delight; 
And  yet  I  '11  say,  go  where  I  may,  I  never  yet  have  seen 
A  dress  that 's  quite  as  grand  a  sight  as  was  that  bombazine. 

Now,  you  must  know  't  was  years  ago  this  quaint  but  noble  gown 

Flashed  in  one  day,  the  usual  way,  upon  our  solemn  town. 

'T  was  Fisk  who  sold  for  sordid  gold  that  gravely  scrumptious 

thing, — 
Jim  Fisk,  the  man  who  drove  a  span  that  would  have  joyed  a 

king,— 

And  grandma's  eye  fell  with  a  sigh  upon  that  sombre  sheen, 
And  grandpa's  purse  looked  much  the  worse  for  grandma's  bom 
bazine. 


121 

Though  ten  years  old,  I  never  told  the  neighbors  of  the  gown; 
For  grandma  said,  "This  secret,  Ned,  must  not  be  breathed  in 

town." 

The  sitting-room  for  days  of  gloom  was  in  a  dreadful  mess 
When  that  quaint  dame,  Miss  'Kelsey,  came  to  make  the  wondrous 

dress : 

To  fit  and  baste  and  stitch  a  waist,  with  whalebones  in  between, 
Is  precious  slow,  as  all  folks  know  who  've  made  a  bombazine. 

With  fortitude  dear  grandma  stood  the  trial  to  the  end 

(The  nerve  we  find  in  womankind  I  cannot  comprehend!); 

And  when  't  was  done,  resolved  that  none  should  guess  at  the 

surprise, 

Within  the  press  she  hid  that  dress,  secure  from  prying  eyes; 
For  grandma  knew  a  thing  or  two, — by  which  remark  I  mean 
That  Sundays  were  the  days  for  her  to  wear  that  bombazine. 

I  need  not  state  she  got  there  late;   and,  sailing  up  the  aisle 
With  regal  grace,  on  grandma's  face  reposed  a  conscious  smile. 
It  fitted  so,  above,  below,  and  hung  so  well  all  round, 
That  there  was  not  one  faulty  spot  a  critic  could  have  found. 
How  proud  I  was  of  her,  because  she  looked  so  like  a  queen! 
And  that  was  why,  perhaps,  that  I  admired  the  bombazine. 

But  there  were  those,  as  you  'd  suppose,  who  scorned  that  per 
fect  gown; 

For  ugly-grained  old  cats  obtained  in  that  New  England  town: 
The  Widow  White  spat  out  her  spite  in  one:   "It  does  n't  fit!" 
The  Packard  girls  (they  wore  false  curls)  all  giggled  like  to  split; 
Sophronia  Wade,  the  sour  old  maid,  she  turned  a  bilious  green, 
When  she  descried  that  joy  and  pride,  my  grandma's  bomba 
zine. 

But  grandma  knew,  and  I  did  too,  that  gown  was  wondrous  fine, — 
The  envious  sneers  and  jaundiced  jeers  were  a  conclusive  sign. 
Why,  grandpa  said  it  went  ahead  of  all  the  girls  in  town, 
And,  saying  this,  he  snatched  a  kiss  that  like  to  burst  that  gown; 
But,  blushing  red,  my  grandma  said,  "Oh,  is  n't  grandpa  mean!" 
Yet  evermore  my  grandma  wore  his  favorite  bombazine. 


122  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

And,  when  she  died  that  sombre  pride  passed  down  to  heedless 

heirs, — 

Alas,  the  day  't  was  hung  away  beneath  the  kitchen  stairs! 
Thence  in  due  time,  with  dust  and  grime,  came  foes  on  foot  and 

wing, 
And  made  their  nests  and  sped  their  guests  in  that  once  beauteous 

thing. 

'T  is  so,  forsooth !  Time  's  envious  tooth  corrodes  each  human  scene; 
And  so,  at  last,  to  ruin  passed  my  grandma's  bombazine. 

Yet  to  this  day,  I  'm  proud  to  say,  it  plays  a  grateful  part, — 
The  thoughts  it  brings  are  of  such  things  as  touch  and  warm  my 

heart. 

This  gown,  my  dear,  you  show  me  here  I  '11  own  is  passing  fair, 
Though  I  '11  confess  it 's  no  such  dress  as  grandma  used  to  wear. 
Yet  wear  it,  do;  perchance  when  you  and  I  are  off  the  scene, 
Our  boy  shall  sing  this  comely  thing  as  /  the  bombazine. 


RARE  ROAST  BEEF 

WHEN  the  numerous  distempers  to  which  all  flesh  is  heir 

Torment  us  till  our  very  souls  are  reeking  with  despair; 

When  that  monster  fiend,  Dyspepsy,  rears  its  spectral  hydra  head, 

Filling  bon  vivants  and  epicures  with  certain  nameless  dread; 

When  any  ill  of  body  or  of  intellect  abounds, 

Be  it  sickness  known  to  Galen  or  disease  unknown  to  Lowndes, — 

In  such  a  dire  emergency  it  is  my  firm  belief 

That  there  is  no  diet  quite  so  good  as  rare  roast  beef. 

And  even  when  the  body  's  in  the  very  prime  of  health, 
When  sweet  contentment  spreads  upon  the  cheeks  her  rosy  wealth, 
And  when  a  man  devours  three  meals  per  day  and  pines  for  more, 
And  growls  because  instead  of  three  square  meals  there  are  not 

four, — 

Well,  even  then,  though  cake  and  pie  do  service  on  the  side, 
And  coffee  is  a  luxury  that  may  not  be  denied, 
Still  of  the  many  viands  there  is  one  that 's  hailed  as  chief, 
And  that,  as  you  are  well  aware,  is  rare  roast  beef. 


RARE   ROAST    BEEF  123 

Some  like  the  sirloin,  but  I  think  the  porterhouse  is  best, — 
'T  is  juicier  and  tenderer  and  meatier  than  the  rest; 
Put  on  this  roast  a  dash  of  salt,  and  then  of  water  pour 
Into  the  sizzling  dripping-pan  a  cupful,  and  no  more; 
The  oven  being  hot,  the  roast  will  cook  in  half  an  hour; 
Then  to  the  juices  in  the  pan  you  add  a  little  flour, 
And  so  you  get  a  gravy  that  is  called  the  cap  sheaf 
Of  that  glorious  summum  bonum,  rare  roast  beef. 

Served  on  a  platter  that  is  hot,  and  carved  with  thin,  keen  knife, 

How  does  this  savory  viand  enhance  the  worth  of  life! 

Give  me  no  thin  and  shadowy  slice,  but  a  thick  and  steaming  slab, — 

Who  would  not  choose  a  generous  hunk  to  a  bloodless  little  dab? 

Upon  a  nice  hot  plate  how  does  the  juicy  morceau  steam, 

A  symphony  in  scarlet  or  a  red  incarnate  dream! 

Take  from  me  eyes  and  ears  and  all,  O  Time,  thou  ruthless  thief! 

Except  these  teeth  werewith  to  deal  with  rare  roast  beef. 

Most  every  kind  and  r6le  of  modern  victuals  have  I  tried, 
Including  roasted,  fricasseed,  broiled,  toasted,  stewed,  and  fried, 
Your  canvasbacks  and  papa-bottes  and  mutton-chops  subese, 
Your  patties  a  la  Turkey  and  your  doughnuts  a  la  grease; 
I  've  whiled  away  dyspeptic  hours  with  crabs  in  marble  halls, 
And  in  the  lowly  cottage  I  've  experienced  codfish  balls; 
But  I  've  never  found  a  viand  that  could  so  allay  all  grief 
And  soothe  the  cockles  of  the  heart  as  rare  roast  beef. 

I  honor  that  sagacious  king  who,  in  a  grateful  mood, 
Knighted  the  savory  loin  that  on  the  royal  table  stood; 
And  as  for  me  I  'd  ask  no  better  friend  than  this  good  roast, 
Which  is  my  squeamish  stomach's  fortress  (feste  Burg}  and  host: 
For  with  this  ally  with  me  I  can  mock  Dyspepsy's  wrath, 
Can  I  pursue  the  joy  of  Wisdom's  pleasant,  peaceful  path. 
So  I  do  off  my  vest  and  let  my  waistband  out  a  reef 
When  I  soever  set  me  down  to  rare  roast  beef. 


124  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 


OLD  TIMES,   OLD   FRIENDS,   OLD  LOVE 

THERE  are  no  days  like  the  good  old  days,— 

The  days  when  we  were  youthful! 
When  humankind  were  pure  of  mind, 

And  speech  and  deeds  were  truthful; 
Before  a  love  for  sordid  gold 

Became  man's  ruling  passion, 
And  before  each  dame  and  maid  became 

Slave  to  the  tyrant  fashion! 

There  are  no  girls  like  the  good  old  girls, — 

Against  the  world  I  'd  stake  'em! 
As  buxom  and  smart  and  clean  of  heart 

As  the  Lord  knew  how  to  make  'em! 
They  were  rich  in  spirit  and  common-sense, 

And  piety  all  supporting 
They  could  bake  and  brew,  and  had  taught  school,  too. 

And  they  made  such  likely  courtin'! 

There  are  no  boys  like  the  good  old  boys,—- 

When  we  were  boys  together! 
When  the  grass  was  sweet  to  the  brown  bare  feet 

That  dimpled  the  laughing  heather; 
When  the  pewee  sung  to  the  summer  dawn 

Of  the  bee  in  the  billowy  clover, 
Or  down  by  the  mill  the  whip-poor-will 

Echoed  his  night  song  over. 

There  is  no  love  like  the  good  old  love, — 

The  love  that  mother  gave  us! 
We  are  old,  old  men,  yet  we  pine  again 

For  that  precious  grace,  — God  save  us! 
So  we  dream  and  dream  of  the  good  old  times, 

And  our  hearts  grow  tenderer,  fonder, 
As  those  dear  old  dreams  bring  soothing  gleams 

Of  heaven  away  off  yonder. 


MR.    BILLINGS    OF   LOUISVILLE  125 


MR.  BILLINGS  OF  LOUISVILLE 

THERE  are  times  in  one's  life  which  one  cannot  forget; 

And  the  time  I  remember  's  the  evening  I  met 

A  haughty  young  scion  of  bluegrass  renown 

Who  made  my  acquaintance  while  painting  the  town: 

A  handshake,  a  cocktail,  a  smoker,  and  then 

Mr.  Billings  of  Louisville  touched  me  for  ten. 

There  flowed  in  his  .veins  the  blue  blood  of  the  South, 

And  a  cynical  smile  curled  his  sensuous  mouth; 

He  quoted  from  Lanier  and  Poe  by  the  yard, 

But  his  purse  had  been  hit  by  the  war,  and  hit  hard: 

I  felt  that  he  honored  and  flattered  me  when 

Mr.  Billings  of  Louisville  touched  me  for  ten. 

I  wonder  that  never  again  since  that  night 
A  vision  of  Billings  has  hallowed  my  sight; 
I  pine  for  the  sound  of  his  voice  and  the  thrill 
That  comes  with  the  touch  of  a  ten-dollar  bill: 
I  wonder  and  pine;   for — I  say  it  again — 
Mr.  Billings  of  Louisville  touched  me  for  ten. 

I  've  heard  what  old  Whittier  sung  of  Miss  Maud; 
But  all  such  philosophy  's  nothing  but  fraud; 
To  one  who  's  a  bear  in  Chicago  to-day, 
With  wheat  going  up,  and  the  devil  to  pay, 
These  words  are  the  saddest  of  tongue  or  of  pen: 
"Mr.  Billings  of  Louisville  touched  me  for  ten." 


POET  AND  KING 

THOUGH  I  am  king,  I  have  no  throne 
Save  this  rough  wooden  siege  alone; 
I  have  no  empire,  yet  my  sway 
Extends  a  myriad  leagues  away; 


126  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

No  servile  vassal  bends  his  knee 
In  grovelling  reverence  to  me, 
Yet  at  my  word  all  hearts  beat  high, 
And  there  is  fire  in  every  eye, 
And  love  and  gratitude  they  bring 
As  tribute  unto  me,  a  king. 

The  folk  that  throng  the  busy  street 
Know  not  it  is  a  king  they  meet; 
And  I  am  glad  there  is  not  seen 
The  monarch  in  my  face  and  mien. 
I  should  not  choose  to  be  the  cause 
Of  fawning  or  of  coarse  applause: 
I  am  content  to  know  the  arts 
Wherewith  to  lord  it  o'er  their  hearts; 
For  when  unto  their  hearts  I  sing, 
I  am  a  king,  I  am  a  king! 

My  sceptre, — see,  it  is  a  pen! 
Wherewith  I  rule  these  hearts  of  men. 
Sometime  it  pleaseth  to  beguile 
Its  monarch  fancy  with  a  smile; 
Sometime  it  is  athirst  for  tears: 
And  so  adown  the  laurelled  years 
I  walk,  the  noblest  lord  on  earth, 
Dispensing  sympathy  and  mirth. 
Aha!   it  is  a  magic  thing 
That  makes  me  what  I  am, — a  king! 

Let  empires  crumble  as  they  may, 
Proudly  I  hold  imperial  sway; 
The  sunshine  and  the  rain  of  years 
Are  human  smiles  and  human  tears 
That  come  or  vanish  at  my  call, — 
I  am  the  monarch  of  them  all! 
Mindful  alone  of  this  am  I: 
The  songs  I  sing  shall  never  die; 
Not  even  envious  Death  can  wring 
His  glory  from  so  great  a  king. 


LIZZIE  127 

Come,  brother,  be  a  king  with  me, 
And  rule  mankind  eternally; 
Lift  up  the  weak,  and  cheer  the  strong, 
Defend  the  truth,  combat  the  wrong! 
You'll  find  no  sceptre  like  the  pen 
To  hold  and  sway  the  hearts  of  men; 
Its  edicts  flow  in  blood  and  tears 
That  will  outwash  the  flood  of  years: 
So,  brother,  sing  your  songs,  oh,  sing! 
And  be  with  me  a  king,  a  king! 


LIZZIE 

I  WONDER  ef  all  wimmin  air 

Like  Lizzie  is  when  we  go  out 
To  theatres  an'  concerts  where 

Is  things  the  papers  talk  about. 
Do  other  wimmin  fret  an'  stew 

Like  they  wuz  bein'  crucified, — 
Frettin'  a  show  or  concert  through, 

With  wonderin'  ef  the  baby  cried  ? 

Now  Lizzie  knows  that  gran'ma  's  there 

To  see  that  everything  is  right; 
Yet  Lizzie  thinks  that  gran'ma's  care 

Ain't  good  enuff  fr  baby,  quite. 
Yet  what  am  I  to  answer  when 

She  kind  uv  fidgets  at  my  side, 
An'  asks  me  every  now  an'  then, 

"I  wonder  ef  the  baby  cried?" 

Seems  like  she  seen  two  little  eyes 
A-pinin'  fr  their  mother's  smile; 

Seems  like  she  heern  the  pleadin'  cries 
Uv  one  she  thinks  uv  all  the  while; 

An'  so  she  's  sorry  that  she  come. 
An'  though  she  allus  tries  to  hide 


128  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

The  truth,  she  'd  ruther  stay  to  hum 
Than  wonder  ef  the  baby  cried. 

Yes,  wimmin  folks  is  all  alike — 

By  Lizzie  you  kin  jedge  the  rest; 
There  never  wuz  a  little  tyke, 

But  that  his  mother  loved  him  best. 
And  nex'  to  bein'  what  I  be — 

The  husband  uv  my  gentle  bride — 
I  'd  wisht  I  wuz  that  croodlin'  wee, 

With  Lizzie  wonderin'  ef  I  cried. 


ALWAYS  RIGHT 

DON'T  take  on  so,  Hiram, 

But  do  what  you're  told  to  do; 
It 's  fair  to  suppose  that  yer  mother  knows 

A  heap  sight  more  than  you. 
I  '11  allow  that  sometimes  her  way 

Don't  seem  the  wisest,  quite; 
But  the  easiest  way, 
When  she  's  had  her  say, 

Is  to  reckon  yer  mother  is  right. 

Courted  her  ten  long  winters, 

Saw  her  to  singin'-school; 
When  she  went  down  one  spell  to  town, 

I  cried  like  a  durned  ol'  fool; 
Got  mad  at  the  boys  for  callin' 

When  I  sparked  her  Sunday  night: 
But  she  said  she  knew 
A  thing  or  two, — 

An'  I  reckoned  yer  mother  wuz  right. 

I  courted  till  I  wuz  aging, 

And  she  wuz  past  her  prime, — 
I  'd  have  died,  I  guess,  if  she  had  n't  said  yes 

When  I  popped  f'r  the  hundredth  time. 


PROVIDENCE   AND   THE   DOG  129 

Said  she  'd  never  have  took  me 

If  I  had  n't  stuck  so  tight; 
Opined  that  we 
Could  never  agree, — 

And  I  reckon  yer  mother  wuz  right! 


PROVIDENCE  AND  THE  DOG 

WHEN  I  was  young  and  callow,  which  was  many  years  ago, 

Within  me  the  afflatus  went  surging  to  and  fro; 

And  so  I  wrote  a  tragedy  that  fairly  reeked  with  gore, 

With  every  act  concluding  with  the  dead  piled  on  the  floor, — • 

A  mighty  effort,  by  the  gods!   and  after  I  had  read 

The  manuscript  to  Daly,  that  dramatic  censor  said: 

"The  plot  is  most  exciting,  and  I  like  the  dialogue; 

You  should  take  the  thing  to  Providence,  and  try  it  on  a  dog." 

McCambridge  organized  a  troupe,  including  many  a  name 

Unknown  alike  to  guileless  me,  to  riches,  and  to  fame. 

A  pompous  man  whose  name  was  Rae  was  Nestor  of  this  troupe, — 

Amphibious,  he  was  quite  at  home  outside  or  in  the  soup! 

The  way  McCambridge  billed  him!     Why,  such  dreams  in  red 

and  green 

Had  ne'er  before  upon  the  boards  of  Yankeedom  been  seen; 
And  my  proud  name  was  heralded, — oh,  that  I'd  gone  incog., 
When  we  took  that  play  to  Providence  to  try  it  on  a  dog! 

Shall  I  forget  the  awful  day  we  struck  that  wretched  town? 
Yet  in  what  melting  irony  the  treacherous  sun  beamed  down! 
The  sale  of  seats  had  not  been  large;    but  then  McCambridge 

said 

The  factory  people  seldom  bought  their  seats  so  far  ahead, 
And  Rae  indorsed  McCambridge.     So  they  partly  set  at  rest 
The  natural  misgivings  that  perturbed  my  youthful  breast; 
For  I  wondered  and  lamented  that  the  town  was  not  agog 
When  I  took  my  play  to  Providence  to  try  it  on  a  dog. 


130  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

They  never  came  at  all, — aha!   I  knew  it  all  the  time, — 
They  never  came  to  see  and  hear  my  tragedy  sublime. 
Oh,  fateful  moment  when  the  curtain  rose  on  act  the  first! 
Oh,  moment  fateful  to  the  soul  for  wealth  and  fame  athirst! 
But  lucky  factory  girls  and  boys  to  stay  away  that  night, 
When  the  author's  fervid  soul  was  touched  by  disappointment's 

blight,— 

When  desolation  settled  down  on  me  like  some  dense  fog 
For  having  tempted  Providence,  and  tried  it  on  a  dog! 

Those  actors  did  n't  know  their  parts;  they  maundered  to  and  fro, 

Ejaculating  platitudes  that  were  quite  mat  a  propos; 

And  when  I  sought  to  reprimand  the  graceless  scamps,  the  lot 

Turned  fiercely  on  me,  and  denounced  my  charming  play  as  rot. 

I  might  have  stood  their  bitter  taunts  without  a  passing  grunt, 

If  I  'd  had  a  word  of  solace  from  the  people  out  in  front; 

But  that  chilly  corporal's  guard  sat  round  like  bumps  upon  a  log 

When  I  played  that  play  at  Providence  with  designs  upon  the  dog. 

We  went  with  lots  of  baggage,  but  we  did  n't  bring  it  back, — 
For  who  would  be  so  hampered  as  he  walks  a  railway  track  ? 
"Oh,  ruthless  muse  of  tragedy!   what  prodigies  of  shame, 
What  marvels  of  injustice  are  committed  in  thy  name!" 
Thus  groaned  I  in  the  spirit,  as  I  strode  what  stretch  of  ties 
'Twixt  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  and  my  native  Gotham  lies; 
But  Rae,  McCambridge,  and  the  rest  kept  up  a  steady  jog, — 
T'  was  not  the  first  time  they  had  plied  their  arts  upon  the  dog. 

So  much  for  my  first  battle  with  the  fickle  goddess,  Fame, — 
And  I  hear  that  some  folks  nowadays  are  faring  just  the  same. 
Oh,  hapless  he  that  on  the  graceless  Yankee  dog  relies! 
The  dog  fares  stout  and  hearty,  and  the  play  it  is  that  dies. 
So  ye  with  tragedies  to  try,  I  beg  of  you,  beware! 
Put  not  your  trust  in  Providence,  that  most  delusive  snare; 
Cast,  if  you  will,  your  pearls  of  thought  before  the  Western  hog, 
But  never  go  to  Providence  to  try  it  on  a  dog. 


GETTIN'  ON  131 

GETTIN'   ON 

WHEN  I  wuz  somewhat  younger, 

I  wuz  reckoned  purty  gay; 
I  had  my  fling  at  everything 

In  a  rollickin',  coltish  way. 
But  times  have  strangely  altered 

Since  sixty  years  ago — 
This  age  of  steam  an'  things  don't  seem 

Like  the  age  I  used  to  know. 
Your  modern  innovations 

Don't  suit  me,  I  confess, 
As  did  the  ways  of  the  good  ol'  days, — 

But  I  'm  gettin'  on,  I  guess. 

I  set  on  the  piazza, 

An'  hitch  round  with  the  sun; 
Sometimes,  mayhap,  I  take  a  nap, 

Waitin'  till  school  is  done. 
An'  then  I  tell  the  children 

The  things  I  done  in  youth, — 
An'  near  as  I  can,  as  a  vener'ble  man, 

I  stick  to  the  honest  truth, — 
But  the  looks  of  them  'at  listen 

Seem  sometimes  to  express 
The  remote  idee  that  I  'm  gone — you  see  ? — 

An'  I  am  gettin'  on,  I  guess. 

I  get  up  in  the  mornin', 

An',  nothin'  else  to  do, 
Before  the  rest  are  up  an'  dressed, 

I  read  the  papers  through. 
I  hang  round  with  the  women 

All  day  an'  hear  'em  talk; 
An'  while  they  sew  or  knit  I  show 

The  baby  how  to  walk. 
An',  somehow,  I  feel  sorry 

When  they  put  away  his  dress 
An'  cut  his  curls  ('cause  they  're  like  a  girl's!)— 

I  'm  gettin'  on,  I  guess. 


132  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSB 

Sometimes,  with  twilight  round  me, 

I  see,  or  seem  to  see, 
A  distant  shore  where  friends  of  yore 

Linger  an'  watch  for  me. 
Sometimes  I  've  heered  'em  callin' 

So  tender-like  'nd  low 
That  it  almost  seemed  like  a  dream  I  dreamed, 

Or  an  echo  of  long  ago; 
An'  sometimes  on  my  forehead 

There  falls  a  soft  caress, 
Or  the  touch  of  a  hand, — you  understand, — 

I  'm  gettin'  on,  I  guess. 


THE  SCHNELLEST  ZUG 

FROM  Hano,er  to  Leipzig  is  but  a  little  way, 
Yet  the  journey  by  the  so-called  schnellest  zug  consumes  a  day, 
You  start  at  half-past  ten  or  so,  and  not  till  nearly  night 
Do  the  double  towers  of  Magdeburg  loom  up  before  your  sight; 
From  thence  to  Leipzig's  quick  enough, — of  that  I  '11  not  com 
plain, — 
But  from  Hanover  to  Magdeburg — confound  that  schnellest  train  i 

The  Germans  say,  that  "schnell"  means  fast,  and  " schnellest" 

faster  yet, — 

In  all  my  life  no  grimmer  bit  of  humor  have  I  met! 
Why,  thirteen  miles  an  hour  's  the  greatest  speed  they  ever  go, 
While  on  the  engine  piston-rods  do  moss  and  lichens  grow; 
And  yet  the  average  Teuton  will  presumptuously  maintain 
That  one  can't  know  what  swiftness  is  till  he  's  tried  das  schnel 
lest  train! 

Fool  that  I  was!     I  should  have  walked, — I  had  no  time  to  waste; 

The  little  journey  I  had  planned  I  had  to  do  in  haste, — 

The  quaint  old  town  of  Leipzig  with  its  literary  mart, 

And  Dresden  with  its  crockery-shops  and  wondrous  wealth  of  art, 

The  Saxon  Alps,  the  Carlsbad  cure  for  all  dyspeptic  pain, — 

These  were  the  ends  I  had  in  view  when  I  took  that  schnellest  train. 


THE    SCHNELLEST   ZUG  133 

The  natives  dozed  around  me,  yet  none  too  deep  to  hear 

The  guard's  sporadic  shout  of  "funf  minuten"  (meaning  beer); 

I  counted  forty  times  at  least  that  voice  announce  the  stops 

Required  of  those  fat  natives  to  glut  their  greed  for  hops, 

Whilst  /  crouched  in  a  corner,  a  monument  to  woe, 

And  thought  unholy,  awful  things,  and  felt  my  whiskers  grow! 

And  then,  the  wretched  sights  one  sees  while  travelling  by  that 

train, — 

The  women  doing  men-folks'  work  at  harvesting  the  grain, 
Or  sometimes  grubbing  in  the  soil,  or  hitched  to  heavy  carts 
Beside  the  family  cow  or  dog,  doing  their  slavish  parts! 
The  husbands  strut  in  soldier  garb, — indeed  they  were  too  vain 
To  let  creation  see  them  work  from  that  creeping  schnellest  train! 

I  found  the  German  language  all  too  feeble  to  convey 

The  sentiments  that  surged  through  my  dyspeptic  hulk  that  day; 

I  had  recourse  to  English,  and  exploded  without  stint 

Such  virile  Anglo-Saxon  as  would  never  do  in  print, 

But  which  assuaged  my  rising  gorge  and  cooled  my  seething  brain 

While  snailing  on  to  Magdeburg  upon  that  schnellest  train. 

The  typical  New  England  freight  that  maunders  to  and  fro, 

The  upper  Mississippi  boats,  the  bumptious  B.   &  O., 

The  creeping  Southern  railroads  with  their  other  creeping  things, 

The  Philadelphy  cable  that  is  run  out  West  for  rings, 

The  Piccadilly  'buses  with  their  constant  roll  and  shake, — 

All  have  I  tried,  and  yet  I  'd  give  the  " schnellest  zug"  the  cake! 

My  countrymen,  if  ever  you  should  seek  the  German  clime, 
Put  not  your  trust  in  Baedeker  if  you  are  pressed  for  time; 
From  Hanover  to  Magdeburg  is  many  a  weary  mile 
By  "schnellest  zug,"  but  done  afoot  it  seems  a  tiny  while; 
Walk,  swim,  or  skate,  and  then  the  task  will  not  appear  in  vain, 
But  you  '11  break  the  third  commandment  if  you  take  the  schnell 
est  train! 


134  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 


BETHLEHEM-TOWN 

As  I  was  going  to  Bethlehem-town, 

Upon  the  earth  I  cast  me  down 

All  underneath  a  little  tree 

That  whispered  in  this  wise  to  me: 

"Oh,  I  shall  stand  on  Calvary 

And  bear  what  burthen  saveth  thee!" 

As  up  I  fared  to  Bethlehem-town, 

I  met  a  shepherd  coming  down, 

And  thus  he  quoth:    "A  wondrous  sight 

Hath  spread  before  mine  eyes  this  night,— 

An  angel  host  most  fair  to  see, 

That  sung  full  sweetly  of  a  tree 

That  shall  uplift  on  Calvary 

What  burthen  saveth  you  and  me  I" 

And  as  I  gat  to  Bethlehem-town, 

Lo!  wise  men  came  that  bore  a  crown. 

"Is  there,"  cried  I,  "in  Bethlehem 

A  King  shall  wear  this  diadem?" 

"Good  sooth,"  they  quoth,  "and  it  is  He 

That  shall  be  lifted  on  the  tree 

And  freely  shed  on  Calvary 

What  blood  redeemeth  us  and  thee!" 

Unto  a  Child  in  Bethlehem-town 
The  wise  men  came  and  brought  the  crown; 
And  while  the  infant  smiling  slept, 
Upon  their  knees  they  fell  and  wept; 
But,  with  her  babe  upon  her  knee, 
Naught  recked  that  Mother  of  the  tree, 
That  should  uplift  on  Calvary 
What  burthen  saveth  all  and  me. 

Again  I  walk  in  Bethlehem-town 

And  think  on  Him  that  wears  the  crown. 

I  may  not  kiss  His  feet  again, 


THE   DOINGS    OF   DELSARTE  135 

Nor  worship  Him  as  did  I  then; 
My  King  hath  died  upon  the  tree, 
And  hath  outpoured  on  Calvary 
What  blood  redeemeth  you  and  me! 


THE  DOINGS  OF  DELSARTE 

IN  former  times  my  numerous  rhymes  excited  general  mirth, 
And  I  was  then  of  all  good  men  the  merriest  man  on  earth; 
And  my  career 
From  year  to  year 
Was  full  of  cheer 

And  things, 

Despite  a  few  regrets,  perdieu!   which  grim  dyspepsia  brings; 
But  now  how  strange  and  harsh  a  change  has  come  upon  the 

scene ! 

Horrors  appall  the  life  where  all  was  formerly  so  serene: 
Yes,  wasting  care  hath  cast  its  snare  about  my  honest  heart, 
Because,  alas!  it  hath  come  to  pass  my  daughter  Js  learned  Delsarte. 

In  flesh  and  joint  and  every  point  the  counterpart  of  me, 
She  grew  so  fast  she  grew  at  last  a  marvellous  thing  to  see, — 
Long,   gaunt,   and  slim,   each  gangling  limb  played  stumbling- 
block  to  t'  other, 

The  which  excess  of  awkwardness  quite  mortified  her  mother. 
Now,  as  for  me,  I  like  to  see  the  carriages  uncouth 
Which  certify  to  all  the  shy,  unconscious  age  of  youth. 
If  maidenkind  be  pure  of  mind,  industrious,  tidy,  smart, 
What  need  that  they  should  fool  away  their  youth  upon  Delsarte  ? 

In  good  old  times  my  numerous  rhymes  occasioned  general  mirth, 
But  now  you  see 

Revealed  in  me 

The  gloomiest  bard  on  earth. 

I  sing  no  more  of  the  joys  of  yore  that  marked  my  happy  life, 
But  rather  those  depressing  woes  with  which  the  present 's  rife. 


136  WESTERN   AND   OTHER   VERSE 

Unreconciled  to  that  gaunt  child,  who  's  now  a  fashion-plate, 
One  song  I  raise  in  Art's  dispraise,  and  so  do  I  fight  with  Fate: 
This  gangling  bard  has  found  it  hard  to  see  his  counterpart 
Long,  loose,  and  slim,  divorced  from  him  by  that  hectic  dude, 
Delsarte. 

Where'er  she  goes, 
She  loves  to  pose, 
In  classic  attitudes, 

And  droop  her  eyes  in  languid  wise,  and  feign  abstracted  moods; 
And  she,  my  child, 
Who  all  so  wild, 
So  helpless  and  so  sweet, 
That  once  she  knew  not  what  to  do  with  those  great  big  hands 

and  feet, 

Now  comes  and  goes  with  such  repose,  so  calmly  sits  or  stands, 
Is  so  discreet  with  both  her  feet,  so  deft  with  both  her  hands. 
Why,  when  I  see  that  satire  on  me,  I  give  an  angry  start, 
And   I   utter  one   word — it   is   commonly   heard— derogatory   to 
Delsarte. 

In  years  gone  by  't  was  said  that  I  was  quite  a  scrumptious  man; 
Conceit  galore  had  I  before  this  Delsarte  craze  began; 
But  now  these  wise 

Folks  criticise 

My  figure  and  my  face, 

And  I  opine  they  even  incline  to  sneer  at  my  musical  bass. 
Why,  sometimes  they  presume  to  say  this  wart  upon  my  cheek 
Is  not  refined,  and  remarks  unkind  they  pass  on  that  antique. 
With  lusty  bass  and  charms  of  face  and  figure  will  I  part 
Ere  they  extort  this  grand  old  wart  to  placate  their  Delsarte. 

Oh,  wretched  day!   as  all  shall  say  who  've  known  my  Muse  be 
fore, 

When  by  this  rhyme  you  see  that  I  'm  not  in  it  any  more. 
Good-by  the  mirth  that  over  earth  diffused  such  keen  delight; 
The  old-time  bard 

Of  pork  and  lard 

Is  plainly  out  of  sight. 


THE   SINGING   IN   GOD'S   ACRE  137 

All  withered  now  about  his  brow  the  laurel  fillets  droop, 
While  Lachesis  brews 

For  the  poor  old  Muse 

A  portion  of  scalding  soup. 

Engrave  this  line,  O  friends  of  mine!   over  my  broken  heart: 
"He  hustled  and  strove,  and  fancied  he  throve,  till  his  daughter 
learned  Delsarte." 


THE  SINGING  IN  GOD'S  ACRE 

OUT  yonder  in  the  moonlight,  wherein  God's  Acre  lies, 

Go  angels  walking  to  and  fro,  singing  their  lullabies. 

Their  radiant  wings  are  folded,  and  their  eyes  are  bended  low, 

As  they  sing  among  the  beds  whereon  the  flowers  delight  to  grow, — 

"Sleep,  oh,  sleep! 

The  Shepherd  guardeth  His  sheep. 
Fast  speedeth  the  night  away, 
Soon  cometh  the  glorious  day; 
Sleep,  weary  ones,  while  ye  may, 

Sleep,  oh,  sleep!" 

The  flowers  within  God's  Acre  see  that  fair  and  wondrous  sight, 
And  hear  the  angels  singing  to  the  sleepers  through  the  night; 
And,  lo!   throughout  the  hours  of  day  those  gentle  flowers  prolong 
The  music  of  the  angels  in  that  tender  slumber-song, — 

"Sleep,  oh,  sleep! 

The  Shepherd  loveth  His  sheep. 
He  that  guardeth  His  flock  the  best 
Hath  folded  them  to  His  loving  breast; 
So  sleep  ye  now,  and  take  your  rest, — 

Sleep,  oh,  sleep!" 

From  angel  and  from  flower  the  years  have  learned  that  soothing 

song, 

And  with  its  heavenly  music  speed  the  days  and  nights  along; 
So  through  all  time,  whose  flight  the  Shepherd's  vigils  glorify, 
God's  Acre  slumbereth  in  the  grace  of  that  sweet  lullaby, — 


138  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

"Sleep,  oh,  sleep! 

The  Shepherd  loveth  His  sheep. 
Fast  speedeth  the  night  away, 
Soon  cometh  the  glorious  day; 
Sleep,  weary  ones,  while  ye  may, — 

Sleep,  oh,  sleep!" 


THE  DREAM-SHIP 

WHEN  the  world  is  fast  asleep, 

Along  the  midnight  skies — 
As  though  it  were  a  wandering  cloud — 

The  ghostly  dream-ship  flies. 

An  angel  stands  at  the  dream-ship's  helm, 

An  angel  stands  at  the  prow, 
And  an  angel  stands  at  the  dream-ship's  side 

With  a  rue-wreath  on  her  brow. 

The  other  angels,  silver-crowned, 

Pilot  and  helmsman  are, 
And  the  angel  with  the  wreath  of  rue 

Tosseth  the  dreams  afar. 

The  dreams  they  fall  on  rich  and  poor; 

They  fall  on  young  and  old; 
And  some  are  dreams  of  poverty, 

And  some  are  dreams  of  gold. 

And  some  are  dreams  that  thrill  with  joy, 

And  some  that  melt  to  tears; 
Some  are  dreams  of  the  dawn  of  love, 

And  some  of  the  old  dead  years. 

On  rich  and  poor  alike  they  fall, 

Alike  on  young  and  old, 
Bringing  to  slumbering  earth  their  joys 

And  sorrows  manifold. 


BALLAD    OF   WOMEN   I    LOVE  139 

The  friendless  youth  in  them  shall  do 

The  deeds  of  mighty  men, 
And  drooping  age  shall  feel  the  grace 

Of  buoyant  youth  again. 

The  king  shall  be  a  beggarman — 

The  pauper  be  a  king — 
In  that  revenge  or  recompense 

The  dream-ship  dreams  do  bring. 

So  ever  downward  float  the  dreams 

That  are  for  all  and  me, 
And  there  is  never  mortal  man 

Can  solve  that  mystery. 

But  ever  onward  in  its  course 

Along  the  haunted  skies — 
As  though  it  were  a  cloud  astray — 

The  ghostly  dream-ship  flies. 

Two  angels  with  their  silver  crowns 

Pilot  and  helmsman  are, 
And  an  angel  with  a  wreath  of  rue 

Tosseth  the  dreams  afar. 


BALLAD  OF  WOMEN  I  LOVE 

PRUDENCE  HEARS  hath  an  old  blue  plate 

Hid  away  in  an  oaken  chest, 
And  a  Franklin  platter  of  ancient  date 

Beareth  Amandy  Baker's  crest; 
What  times  soever  I  've  been  their  guest, 

Says  I  to  myself  in  an  undertone: 
"Of  womenfolk,  it  must  be  confessed, 

These  do  I  love,  and  these  alone." 

Well,  again,  in  the  Nutmeg  State, 
Dorothy  Pratt  is  richly  blest 


140  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

With  a  relic  of  art  and  a  land  effete — 
A  pitcher  of  glass  that 's  cut,  not  pressed. 

And  a  Washington  teapot  is  possessed 
Down  in  Pelham  by  Marthy  Stone — 

Think  ye  now  that  I  say  in  jest 

"These  do  I  love,  and  these  alone?" 

Were  Hepsy  Higgins  inclined  to  mate, 

Or  Dorcas  Eastman  prone  to  invest 
In  Cupid's  bonds,  they  could  find  their  fate 

In  the  bootless  bard  of  Crockery  Quest. 
For  they  've  heaps  of  trumpery — so  have  the  rest 

Of  those  spinsters  whose  ware  I  'd  like  to  own; 
You  can  see  why  I  say  with  such  certain  zest, 

"These  do  I  love,  and  these  alone." 

ENVOY 

Prince,  show  me  the  quickest  way  and  best 
To  gain  the  subject  of  my  moan; 

We  Ve  neither  spinsters  nor  relics  out  West — 
These  do  I  love,  and  these  alone. 


SUPPOSE 

SUPPOSE,  my  dear,  that  you  were  I 
And  by  your  side  your  sweetheart  sate; 

Suppose  you  noticed  by  and  by 

The  distance  'twixt  you  were  too  great; 

Now  tell  me,  dear,  what  would  you  do  ? 
I  know — and  so  do  you. 

And  when  (so  comfortably  placed) 
Suppose  you  only  grew  aware 

That  that  dear,  dainty  little  waist 
Of  hers  looked  very  lonely  there; 

Pray  tell  me  sooth — what  would  you  do? 
I  know,  and  so  do  you. 


MYSTERIOUS  DOINGS  141 

When,  having  done  what  I  just  did 

With  not  a  frown  to  check  or  chill, 
Suppose  her  red  lips  seemed  to  bid 

Defiance  to  your  lordly  will; 
Oh,  tell  me,  sweet,  what  would  you  do? 

I  know,  and  so  do  you. 


MYSTERIOUS  DOINGS 

As  once  I  rambled  in  the  woods 

I  chanced  to  spy  amid  the  brake 
A  huntsman  ride  his  way  beside 

A  fair  and  passing  tranquil  lake; 
Though  velvet  bucks  sped  here  and  there, 

He  let  them  scamper  through  the  green — 
Not  one  smote  he,  but  lustily 

He  blew  his  horn — what  could  it  mean? 

As  on  I  strolled  beside  that  lake, 

A  pretty  maid  I  chanced  to  see 
Fishing  away  for  finny  prey, 

Yet  not  a  single  one  caught  she; 
All  round  her  boat  the  fishes  leapt 

And  gambolled  to  their  hearts'  content, 
Yet  never  a  thing  did  the  maid  but  sing — 

I  wonder  what  on  earth  it  meant. 

As  later  yet  I  roamed  my  way, 

A  lovely  steed  neighed  loud  and  long, 
And  an  empty  boat  sped  all  afloat 

Where  sang  a  fishermaid  her  song; 
All  underneath  the  prudent  shade, 

Which  yonder  kindly  willows  threw, 
Together  strayed  a  youth  and  maid — 

I  can't  explain  it  all,  can  you  ? 


142  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 


WITH  TWO  SPOONS  FOR  TWO  SPOONS 

How  trifling  shall  these  gifts  appear 

Among  the  splendid  many 
That  loving  friends  now  send  to  cheer 

Harvey  and  Ellen  Jenney. 

And  yet  these  baubles  symbolize 

A  certain  fond  relation 
That  well  beseems,  as  I  surmise, 

This  festive  celebration. 

Sweet  friends  of  mine,  be  spoons  once  more, 

And  with  your  tender  cooing 
Renew  the  keen  delights  of  yore — 

The  rapturous  bliss  of  wooing. 

What  though  that  silver  in  your  hair 

Tells  of  the  years  aflying? 
'T  is  yours  to  mock  at  Time  and  Care 

With  love  that  is  undying. 

In  memory  of  this  Day,  dear  friends, 

Accept  the  modest  token 
From  one  who  with  the  bauble  sends 

A  love  that  can't  be  spoken. 


MARY  SMITH 

AWAY  down  East  where  I  was  reared  amongst  my  Yankee  kith, 

There  used  to  live  a  pretty  girl  whose  name  was  Mary  Smith; 

And  though  it 's  many  years  since  last  I  saw  that  pretty  girl, 

And  though  I  feel  I  'm  sadly  worn  by  Western  strife  and  whirl; 

Still,  oftentimes,  I  think  about  the  old  familiar  place, 

Which,  someway,  seemed  the  brighter  for  Miss  Mary's  pretty  face, 

And  in  my  heart  I  feel  once  more  revivified  the  glow 

I  used  to  feel  in  those  old  times  when  I  was  Mary's  beau. 


MARY   SMITH  143 

I  saw  her  home  from  singing  school — she  warbled  like  a  bird. 
A  sweeter  voice  than  hers  for  song  or  speech  I  never  heard. 
She  was  soprano  in  the  choir,  and  I  a  solemn  bass, 
And  when  we  unisoned  our  voices  filled  that  holy  place; 
The  tenor  and  the  alto  never  had  the  slightest  chance, 
For  Mary's  upper  register  made  every  heartstring  dance; 
And,  as  for  me,  I  shall  not  brag,  and  yet  I  'd  have  you  know 
I  sung  a  very  likely  bass  when  I  was  Mary's  beau. 

On  Friday  nights  I  'd  drop  around  to  make  my  weekly  call, 
And  though  I  came  to  visit  her,  I  'd  have  to  see  'em  all. 
With  Mary's  mother  sitting  here  and  Mary's  father  there, 
The  conversation  never  flagged  so  far  as  I  'm  aware; 
Sometimes  I'd  hold  her  worsted,  sometimes  we  'd  play  at  games, 
Sometimes  dissect  the  apples  which  we  'd  named  each  other's 

names. 

Oh  how  I  loathed  the  shrill-toned  clock  that  told  me  when  to  go — 
'T  was  ten  o'clock  at  half-past  eight  when  I  was  Mary's  beau. 

Now  there  was  Luther  Baker — because  he'd  come  of  age 

And  thought  himself  some  pumpkins  because  he  drove  the  stage — 

He  fancied  he  could  cut  me  out;   but  Mary  was  my  friend — 

Elsewise  I  'm  sure  the  issue  had  had  a  tragic  end. 

For  Luther  Baker  was  a  man  I  never  could  abide, 

And,  when  it  came  to  Mary,  either  he  or  I  had  died. 

I  merely  cite  this  instance  incidentally  to  show 

That  I  was  quite  in  earnest  when  I  was  Mary's  beau. 

How  often  now  those  sights,  those  pleasant  sights,  recur  again: 
The  little  township  that  was  all  the  world  I  knew  of  then — 
The  meeting-house  upon  the  hill,  the  tavern  just  beyond, 
Old  deacon  Packard's  general  store,  the  sawmill  by  the  pond, 
The  village  elms  I  vainly  sought  to  conquer  in  my  quest 
Of  that  surpassing  trophy,  the  golden  oriole's  nest. 
And,  last  of  all  those  visions  that  come  back  from  long  ago, 
The  pretty  face  that  thrilled  my  soul  when  I  was  Mary's  beau. 

Hush,  gentle  wife,  there  is  no  need  a  pang  should  vex  your  heart — 
'T  is  many  years  since  fate  ordained  that  she  and  I  should  part; 
To  each  a  true,  maturer  love  came  in  good  time,  and  yet 


144  WESTERN   AND    OTHEE   VERSE 

It  brought  not  with  its  nobler  grace  the  power  to  forget. 

And  would  you  fain  begrudge  me  now  the  sentimental  joy 

That  comes  of  recollections  of  my  sparkings  when  a  boy  ? 

I  warrant  me  that,  were  your  heart  put  to  the  rack,  't  would  show 

That  it  had  predilections  when  I  was  Mary's  beau. 

And,  Mary,  should  these  lines  of  mine  seek  out  your  biding  place, 
God  grant  they  bring  the  old  sweet  smile  back  to  your  pretty  face — 
God  grant  they  bring  you  thoughts  of  me,  not  as  I  am  to-day, 
With  faltering  step  and  brimming  eyes  and  aspect  grimly  gray; 
But  thoughts  that  picture  me  as  fair  and  full  of  life  and  glee 
As  we  were  in  the  olden  times — as  you  shall  always  be. 
Think  of  me  ever,  Mary,  as  the  boy  you  used  to  know 
When  time  was  fleet,  and  life  was  sweet,  and  I  was  Mary's  beau. 

Dear  hills  of  old  New  England,  look  down  with  tender  eyes 

Upon  one  little  lonely  grave  that  in  your  bosom  lies; 

For  in  that  cradle  sleeps  a  child  who  was  so  fair  to  see 

God  yearned  to  have  unto  Himself  the  joy  she  brought  to  me; 

And  bid  your  winds  sing  soft  and  low  the  song  of  other  days, 

When,  hand  in  hand  and  heart  to  heart,  we  went  our  pleasant 

ways — 

Ah  me!  but  could  I  sing  again  that  song  of  long  ago, 
Instead  of  this  poor  idle  song  of  being  Mary's  beau. 


JESSIE 

WHEN  I  remark  her  golden  hair 

Swoon  on  her  glorious  shoulders, 
I  marvel  not  that  sight  so  rare 

Doth  ravish  all  beholders; 
For  summon  hence  all  pretty  girls 

Renowned  for  beauteous  tresses, 
And  you  shall  find  among  their  curls 

There  's  none  so  fair  as  Jessie's. 


TO    EMMA   ABBOTT  145 

And  Jessie's  eyes  are,  oh,  so  blue 

And  full  of  sweet  revealings — 
They  seem  to  look  you  through  and  through 

And  read  your  inmost  feelings; 
Nor  black  emits  such  ardent  fires, 

Nor  brown  such  truth  expresses — 
Admit  it,  all  ye  gallant  squires — 

There  are  no  eyes  like  Jessie's. 

Her  voice  (like  liquid  beams  that  roll 

From  moonland  to  the  river) 
Steals  subtly  to  the  raptured  soul, 

Therein  to  lie  and  quiver; 
Or  falls  upon  the  grateful  ear 

With  chaste  and  warm  caresses — 
Ah,  all  concede  the  truth  (who  hear): 

There  's  no  such  voice  as  Jessie's. 

Of  other  charms  she  hath  such  store 

All  rivalry  excelling, 
Though  I  used  adjectives  galore, 

They  'd  fail  me  in  the  telling; 
But  now  discretion  stays  my  hand — 

Adieu,  eyes,  voice,  and  tresses. 
Of  all  the  husbands  in  the  land 

There  's  none  so  fierce  as  Jessie's. 


TO  EMMA  ABBOTT 

THERE — let  thy  hands  be  folded 

Awhile  in  sleep's  repose; 
The  patient  hands  that  wearied  not, 
But  earnestly  and  nobly  wrought 

In  charity  and  faith; 
And  let  thy  dear  eyes  close — 
The  eyes  that  looked  alway  to  God, 
Nor  quailed  beneath  the  chastening  rod 
Of  sorrow; 


146  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Fold  thou  thy  hands  and  eyes 
For  just  a  little  while, 
And  with  a  smile 

Dream  of  the  morrow. 

And,  O  white  voiceless  flower, 

The  dream  which  thou  shalt  dream 
Should  be  a  glimpse  of  heavenly  things, 
For  yonder  like  a  seraph  sings 

The  sweetness  of  a  life 
With  faith  alway  its  theme; 
While  speedeth  from  those  realms  above 
The  messenger  of  that  dear  love 

That  healeth  sorrow. 
So  sleep  a  little  while, 

For  thou  shalt  wake  and  sing 
Before  thy  King 

When  cometh  the  morrow. 


THE  GREAT  JOURNALIST  IN  SPAIN 

GOOD  editor  Dana — God  bless  him,  we  say — 
Will  soon  be  afloat  on  the  main, 
Will  be  steaming  away 
Through  the  mist  and  the  spray 
To  the  sensuous  climate  of  Spain. 

Strange  sights  shall  he  see  in  that  beautiful  land 
Which  is  famed  for  its  soap  and  its  Moor, 

For,  as  we  understand, 

The  scenery  is  grand 
Though  the  system  of  railways  is  poor. 

For  moonlight  of  silver  and  sunlight  of  gold 
Glint  the  orchards  of  lemons  and  mangoes, 
And  the  ladies,  we  're  told, 
Are  a  joy  to  behold 
As  they  twine  in  their  lissome  fandangoes. 


THE   STODDARDS  147 

What  though  our  friend  Dana  shall  twang  a  guitar 
And  murmur  a  passionate  strain; 

Oh,  fairer  by  far 

Than  those  ravishments  are 
The  castles  abounding  in  Spain. 

These  castles  are  built  as  the  builder  may  list — 
They  are  sometimes  of  marble  or  stone, 

But  they  mostly  consist 

Of  east  wind  and  mist 
With  an  ivy  of  froth  overgrown. 

A  beautiful  castle  our  Dana  shall  raise 
On  a  futile  foundation  of  hope, 

And  its  glories  shall  blaze 

In  the  somnolent  haze 
Of  the  mythical  lake  del  y  Soap. 

The  fragrance  of  sunflowers  shall  swoon  on  the  air 
And  the  visions  of  Dreamland  obtain, 

And  the  song  of  "World's  Fair" 

Shall  be  heard  everywhere 
Through  that  beautiful  castle  in  Spain. 


THE  STODDARDS 

WHEN  I  am  in  New  York,  I  like  to  drop  around  at  night, 
To  visit  with  my  honest,  genial  friends,  the  Stoddards  hight; 
Their  home  in  Fifteenth  street  is  all  so  snug,  and  furnished  so, 
That,  when  I  once  get  planted  there,  I  don't  know  when  to  go; 
A  cosey  cheerful  refuge  for  the  weary  homesick  guest, 
Combining  Yankee  comforts  with  the  freedom  of  the  West. 

The  first  thing  you  discover,  as  you  maunder  through  the  hall, 
Is  a  curious  little  clock  upon  a  bracket  on  the  wall; 


148  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

'T  was  made  by  Stoddard's  father,  and  it 's  very,  very  old— 

The  connoisseurs  assure  me  it  is  worth  its  weight  in  gold; 

And  I,  who  've  bought  all  kinds  of  clocks,  'twixt  Denver  and  the 

Rhine, 
Cast  envious  eyes  upon  that  clock,  and  wish  that  it  were  mine. 

But  in  the  parlor.     Oh,  the  gems  on  tables,  walls,  and  floor — 
Rare  first  editions,  etchings,  and  old  crockery  galore. 
Why,  talk  about  the  Indies  and  the  wealth  of  Orient  things — 
They  couldn't  hold   a   candle   to   these    quaint   and   sumptuous 

things; 

In  such  profusion,  too — Ah  me!  how  dearly  I  recall 
How  I  have  sat  and  watched  'em  and  wished  I  had  'em  all. 

Now,  Mr.  Stoddard's  study  is  on  the  second  floor, 

A  wee  blind  dog  barks  at  me  as  I  enter  through  the  door; 

The  Cerberus  would  fain  begrudge  what  sights  it  cannot  see, 

The  rapture  of  that  visual  feast  it  cannot  share  with  me; 

A  miniature  edition  this — this  most  absurd  of  hounds — 

A  genuine  unique,  I  'm  sure,  and  one  unknown  to  Lowndes. 

Books — always  books — are  piled  around;  some  musty,  and  all  old; 
Tall,  solemn  folios  such  as  Lamb  declared  he  loved  to  hold; 
Large  paper  copies  with  their  virgin  margins  white  and  wide, 
And  presentation  volumes  with  the  author's  comps.  inside; 
I  break  the  tenth  commandment  with  a  wild  impassioned  cry: 
Oh,  how  came  Stoddard  by  these  things?     Why  Stoddard,  and 
not  I? 

From  yonder  wall  looks  Thackeray  upon  his  poet  friend, 
And  underneath  the  genial  face  appear  the  lines  he  penned; 
And  here,  gadzooks,  ben  honge  ye  prynte  of  marvaillous  renowne 
Yt  shameth  Chaucers  gallaunt  knyghtes  in  Canterbury  towne; 
And  still  more  books  and  pictures.     I  'm  dazed,  bewildered,  vexed; 
Since  I  've  broke  the  tenth  commandment,  why  not  break  the  eighth 
one  next? 

And,  furthermore,  in  confidence  inviolate  be  it  said 

Friend  Stoddard  owns  a  lock  of  hair  that  grew  on  Milton's  head- 


THE   STODDARDS  149 

Now  I  have  Gladstone  axes  and  a  lot  of  curious  things, 

Such  as  pimply  Dresden  teacups  and  old  German  wedding-rings; 

But  nothing  like  that  saintly  lock  have  I  on  wall  or  shelf, 

And,  being  somewhat  short  of  hair,  I  should  like  that  lock  myself. 

But  Stoddard  has  a  soothing  way,  as  though  he  grieved  to  see 

Invidious  torments  prey  upon  a  nice  young  chap  like  me. 

He  waves  me  to  an  easy  chair  and  hands  me  out  a  weed 

And  pumps  me  full  of  that  advice  he  seems  to  know  I  need; 

So  sweet  the  tap  of  his  philosophy  and  knowledge  flows 

That  I  can't  help  wishing  that  I  knew  a  half  what  Stoddard  knows. 

And  so  we  sit  for  hours  and  hours,  praising  without  restraint 
The  people  who  are  thoroughbreds,  and  roasting  the  ones  that  ain't; 
Happy,  thrice  happy,  is  the  man  we  happen  to  admire, 
But  wretched,  oh,  how  wretched  he  that  hath  provoked  our  ire; 
For  I  speak  emphatic  English  when  I  once  get  fairly  r'iled, 
And  Stoddard's  wrath  's  an  Ossa  upon  a  Pelion  piled. 

Out  yonder,  in  the  alcove,  a  lady  sits  and  darns, 
And  interjects  remarks  that  always  serve  to  spice  our  yarns; 
She  's  Mrs.  Stoddard;   there  's  a  dame  that 's  truly  to  sny  heart: 
A  tiny  little  woman,  but  so  quaint,  and  good,  and  smart 
That,  if  you  asked  me  to  suggest  which  one  I  should  prefer 
Of  all  the  Stoddard  treasures,  I  should  promptly  mention  her. 

O  dear  old  man,  how  I  should  like  to  be  with  you  this  night, 
Down  in  your  home  in  Fifteenth  street,  where  all  is  snug  and  bright; 
Where  the  shaggy  little  Cerberus  dreams  in  its  cushioned  place, 
And  the  books  and  pictures  all  around  smile  in  their  old  friend's  face; 
Where  the  dainty  little  sweetheart,  whom  you  still  were  proud  to  woo, 
Charms  back  the  tender  memories  so  dear  to  her  and  you. 


150  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

THE  THREE  TAILORS 

I  SHALL  tell  you  in  rhyme  how,  once  on  a  time, 
Three  tailors  tramped  up  to  the  inn  Ingleheim, 

On  the  Rhine,  lovely  Rhine; 

They  were  broke,  but  the  worst  of  it  all,  they  were  curst 
With  that  malady  common  to  tailors — a  thirst 

For  wine,  lots  of  wine. 

" Sweet  host,"  quoth  the  three,  "we  're  hard  up  as  can  be, 
Yet  skilled  in  the  practice  of  cunning  are  we, 

On  the  Rhine,  genial  Rhine; 
And  we  pledge  you  we  will  impart  you  that  skill 
Right  quickly  and  fully,  providing  you  '11  fill 

Us  with  wine,  cooling  wine." 

But  that  host  shook  his  head,  and  he  warily  said: 
"  Though  cunning  be  good,  we  take  money  instead, 

On  the  Rhine,  thrifty  Rhine; 
If  ye  fancy  ye,  may  without  pelf  have  your  way 
You  '11  find  there  's  both  host  and  the  devil  to  pay 

For  your  wine,  costly  wine." 

Then  the  first  knavish  wight  took  his  needle  so  bright 
And  threaded  its  eye  with  a  wee  ray  of  light 

From  the  Rhine,  sunny  Rhine; 
And,  in  such  a  deft  way,  patched  a  mirror  that  day 
That  where  it  was  mended  no  expert  could  say — 

Done  so  fine  't  was  for  wine. 

The  second  thereat  spied  a  poor  little  gnat 
Go  toiling  along  on  his  nose  broad  and  flat 

Towards  the  Rhine,  pleasant  Rhine; 
"Aha,  tiny  friend,  I  should  hate  to  offend, 
But  your  stockings  need  darning" — which  same  did  he  mend, 

All  for  wine,  soothing  wine. 

And  next  there  occurred  what  you  '11  deem  quite  absurd — 
His  needle  a  space  in  the  wall  thrust  the  third. 
By  the  Rhine,  wondrous  Rhine; 


THE   JAFFA   AND   JERUSALEM   RAILWAY  151 

And  then  all  so  spry,  he  leapt  through  the  eye 
Of  that  thin  cambric  needle — nay,  think  you  I  'd  lie 
About  wine — not  for  wine. 

The  landlord  allowed  (with  a  smile)  he  was  proud 
To  do  the  fair  thing  by  that  talented  crowd 

On  the  Rhine,  generous  Rhine. 
So  a  thimble  filled  he  as  full  as  could  be — 
"Drink  long  and  drink  hearty,  my  jolly  friends  three, 

Of  my  wine,  filling  wine." 


THE  JAFFA  AND   JERUSALEM  RAILWAY 

A  TORTUOUS  double  iron  track;  a  station  here,  a  station  there; 
A  locomotive,  tender,  tanks;   a  coach  with  stiff  reclining  chair; 
Some  postal  cars,  and  baggage,  too;  a  vestibule  of  patent  make; 
With  buffers,  duffers,  switches,  and  the  soughing  automatic  brake — 
This  is  the  Orient's  novel  pride,  and  Syria's  gaudiest  modern  gem: 
The  railway  scheme  that  is  to  ply  'twixt  Jaffa  and  Jerusalem. 

Beware,  O  sacred  Mooley  cow,  the  engine  when  you  hear  its  bell ; 
Beware,  O  camel,  when  resounds  the  whistle's  shrill,  unholy  swell; 
And,  native  of  that  guileless  land,  unused  to  modern  travel's  snare, 
Beware  the  fiend  that  peddles  books — the  awful  peanut-boy  beware. 
Else,  trusting  in  their  specious  arts,  you  may  have  reason  to  con 
demn 
The  traffic  which  the  knavish  ply  'twixt  Jaffa  and  Jerusalem. 

And  when,  ah,  when  the  bonds  fall  due,  how  passing  wroth  will 

wax  the  state 

From  Nebo's  mount  to  Nazareth  will  spread  the  cry  "Repudiate"! 
From  Hebron  to  Tiberius,  from  Jordan's  banks  unto  the  sea, 

Will  rise  profuse  anathemas  against  "that  monopoly!" 

And  F.  M.  B.  A.  shepherd-folk,  with  Sockless  Jerry  leading  them, 
Will  swamp  that  corporation  line  'twixt  Jaffa  and  Jerusalem. 


152  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

THE  WOOING  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND 
(ALASKAN  BALLAD) 

THE  Northland  reared  his  hoary  head 
And  spied  the  Southland  leagues  away — 

"Fairest  of  all  fair  brides,"  he  said, 
"Be  thou  my  bride,  I  pray!" 

Whereat  the  Southland  laughed  and  cried: 

"I  '11  bide  beside  my  native  sea, 
And  I  shall  never  be  thy  bride 

Till  thou  com'st  wooing  me!" 

The  Northland's  heart  was  a  heart  of  ice, 
A  diamond  glacier,  mountain  high— 

Oh,  love  is  sweet  at  any  price, 
As  well  know  you  and  I! 

So  gayly  the  Northland  took  his  heart 

And  cast  it  in  the  wailing  sea — 
"Go,  thou,  with  all  thy  cunning  art. 

And  woo  my  bride  for  me!" 

For  many  a  night  and  for  many  a  day, 
And  over  the  leagues  that  rolled  between, 

The  true-heart  messenger  sped  away 
To  woo  the  Southland  queen. 

But  the  sea  wailed  loud,  and  the  sea  wailed  long, 
While  ever  the  Northland  cried  in  glee: 

"Oh,  thou  shalt  sing  us  our  bridal  song, 
When  comes  my  bride,  O  sea!" 

At  the  foot  of  the  Southland's  golden  throne 
The  heart  of  the  Northland  ever  throbs — 

For  that  true-heart  speaks  in  the  waves  that  moan, 
The  songs  that  it  sings  are  sobs. 


STAR   OF   THE   EAST  153 

Ever  the  Southland  spurns  the  cries 

Of  the  messenger  pleading  the  Northland's  part; 
The  summer  shines  in  the  Southland's  eyes — 

The  winter  bides  in  her  heart! 

And  ever  unto  that  far-off  place 

Which  love  doth  render  a  hallowed  spot, 

The  Northland  turneth  his  honest  face 
And  wonders  she  cometh  not. 

The  sea  wails  loud,  and  the  sea  wails  long, 

As  the  ages  of  waiting  drift  slowly  by 
But  the  sea  shall  sing  no  bridal  song — 

As  well  know  you  and  I! 


STAR  OF  THE  EAST 

STAR  of  the  East,  that  long  ago 

Brought  wise  men  on  their  way 
Where,  angels  singing  to  and  fro, 
The  Child  of  Bethlehem  lay- 
Above  that  Syrian  hill  afar 
Thou  shinest  out  to-night,  O  Star! 

Star  of  the  East,  the  night  were  drear 

But  for  the  tender  grace 
That  with  thy  glory  comes  to  cheer 

Earth's  loneliest,  darkest  place; 
For  by  that  charity  we  see 
Where  there  is  hope  for  all  and  me. 

Star  of  the  East!  show  us  the  way 

In  wisdom  undefiled 
To  seek  that  manger  out  and  lay 

Our  gifts  before  the  child — 
To  bring  our  hearts  and  offer  them 
Unto  our  King  in  Bethlehem! 


154  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 


TWIN  IDOLS 

THERE  are  two  phrases,  you  must  know, 

So  potent  (yet  so  small) 
That  wheresoe'er  a  man  may  go 

He  needs  none  else  at  all; 
No  servile  guide  to  lead  the  way 

Nor  lackey  at  his  heel, 
If  he  be  learned  enough  to  say 

"Comme  bien"  and  "Wie  viel." 


The  sleek,  pomaded  Parleyvoo 

Will  air  his  sweetest  airs 
And  quote  the  highest  rates  when  you 

"Comme  bien"  for  his  wares; 
And,  though  the  German  stolid  be, 

His  so-called  heart  of  steel 
Becomes  as  soft  as  wax  when  he 

Detects  the  words  "Wie  viel." 


Go,  search  the  boulevards  and  rues 

From  Havre  to  Marseilles — 
You  '11  find  all  eloquence  you  use 

Except  "Comme  bien"  fails; 
Or  in  the  country  auf  der  Rhine 

Essay  a  business  deal 
And  all  your  art  is  good  fuhr  nein 

Beyond  the  point— "Wie  viel." 

It  matters  not  what  game  or  prey 

Attracts  your  greedy  eyes — 
You  must  pursue  the  good  old  way 

If  you  would  win  the  prize; 
It  is  to  get  a  titled  mate 

All  run  down  at  the  heel, 
If  you  inquire  of  stock  effete, 

"Comme  bien"  or  "Wie  viel." 


BEN   APFELGARTEN  155 

So  he  is  wise  who  envieth  not 

A  wealth  of  foreign  speech, 
Since  with  two  phrases  may  be  got 

Whatever  's  in  his  reach; 
For  Europe  is  a  soulless  shrine 

In  which  all  classes  kneel 
Before  twin  idols,  deemed  divine — 

"Comme  bien"  and  "Wie  viel." 


BEN  APFELGARTEN 

THERE  was  a  certain  gentleman,  Ben  Apfelgarten  called, 

Who  lived  way  off  in  Germany  a  many  years  ago, 
And  he  was  very  fortunate  in  being  very  bald 
And  so  was  very  happy  he  was  so. 

He  warbled  all  the  day 

Such  songs  as  only  they 
Who  are  very,  very  circumspect  and  very  happy  may; 

The  people  wondered  why, 

As  the  years  went  gliding  by, 
They  never  heard  him  once  complain  or  even  heave  a  sigh! 

The  women  of  the  province  fell  in  love  with  genial  Ben, 
Till  (maybe  you  can  fancy  it)  the  dickens  was  to  pay 
Among  the  callow  students  and  the  sober-minded  men — 
With  the  women-folk  a-cuttin'  up  that  way! 

Why,  they  gave  him  turbans  red 

To  adorn  his  hairless  head, 
And  knitted  jaunty  nightcaps  to  protect  him  when  abed! 

In  vain  the  rest  demurred — 

Not  a  single  chiding  word 
Those  ladies  deigned  to  tolerate — remonstrance  was  absurd! 

Things  finally  got  into  such  a  very  dreadful  way 

That  the  others  (oh,  how  artful)  formed  the  politic  design 

To  send  him  to  the  reichstag;   so,  one  dull  November  day, 
They  elected  him  a  member  from  the  Rhine! 


156  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Then  the  other  members  said: 

"Gott  im  Himmel!   what  a  head!" 
But  they  marvelled  when  his  speeches  they  listened  to  or  read; 

And  presently  they  cried: 

"There  must  be  heaps  inside 
Of  the  smooth  and  shiny  cranium  his  constituents  deride!" 

Well,  when  at  last  he  up  'nd  died — long  past  his  ninetieth  year — 

The  strangest  and  the  most  lugubrious  funeral  he  had, 
For  women  came  in  multitudes  to  weep  upon  his  bier — 

The  men  all  wond'ring  why  on  earth  the  women  had  gone 
mad! 

And  this  wonderment  increased 
Till  the  sympathetic  priest 

Inquired  of  those  same  ladies:    "Why  this  fuss  about  deceased?" 
Whereupon  were  they  appalled, 
For,  as  one,  those  women  squalled: 
"We  doted  on  deceased  for  being  bald — bald — bald!" 

He  was  bald  because  his  genius  burnt  that  shock  of  hair  away 

Which,  elsewise,  clogs  one's  keenness  and  activity  of  mind; 
And  (barring  present  company,  of  course)  I  'm  free  to  say 
That,  after  all,  it 's  intellect  that  captures  womankind. 
At  any  rate,  since  then 
(With  a  precedent  in  Ben), 
The  women-folk  have  been  in  love  with  us  bald-headed  men! 


THE  DREAMS 

Two  dreams  came  down  to  earth  one  night 

From  the  realm  of  mist  and  dew; 
One  was  a  dream  of  the  old,  old  days, 

And  one  was  a  dream  of  the  new. 

One  was  a  dream  of  a  shady  lane 

That  led  to  the  pickerel  pond 
Where  the  willows  and  rushes  bowed  themselves 

To  the  brown  old  hills  beyond. 


THE   DREAMS  157 

\ 

And  the  people  that  peopled  the  old-time  dream 

Were  pleasant  and  fair  to  see, 
And  the  dreamer  he  walked  with  them  again 

As  often  of  old  walked  he. 

Oh,  cool  was  the  wind  in  the  shady  lane 

That  tangled  his  curly  hair! 
Oh,  sweet  was  the  music  the  robins  made 

To  the  springtime  everywhere! 

Was  it  the  dew  the  dream  had  brought 

From  yonder  midnight  skies, 
Or  was  it  tears  from  the  dear,  dead  years 

That  lay  in  the  dreamer's  eyes? 

The  other  dream  ran  fast  and  free, 

As  the  moon  benignly  shed 
Her  golden  grace  on  the  smiling  face 

In  the  little  trundle-bed. 

For  't  was  a  dream  of  times  to  come — 

Of  the  glorious  noon  of  day — 
Of  the  summer  that  follows  the  careless  spring 

When  the  child  is  done  with  play. 

And  't  was  a  dream  of  the  busy  world 

Where  valorous  deeds  are  done; 
Of  battles  fought  in  the  cause  of  right, 

And  of  victories  nobly  won. 

It  breathed  no  breath  of  the  dear  old  home 

And  the  quiet  joys  of  youth; 
It  gave  no  glimpse  of  the  good  old  friends 

Or  the  old-time  faith  and  truth. 

But  't  was  a  dream  of  youthful  hopes, 

And  fast  and  free  it  ran, 
And  it  told  to  a  little  sleeping  child 

Of  a  boy  become  a  man! 


158  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

These  were  the  dreams  that  came  one  night 

To  earth  from  yonder  sky; 
These  were  the  dreams  two  dreamers  dreamed- 

My  little  boy  and  and  I. 

And  in  our  hearts  my  boy  and  I 

Were  glad  that  it  was  so; 
He  loved  to  dream  of  days  to  come, 

And  I  of  long  ago. 

So  from  our  dreams  my  boy  and  I 

Unwillingly  awoke, 
But  neither  of  his  precious  dream 

Unto  the  other  spoke. 

Yet  of  the  love  we  bore  those  dreams 
Gave  each  his  tender  sign; 
For  there  was  triumph  in  his  eyes — 
And  there  were  tears  in  mine! 


IN  NEW  ORLEANS 

JTwAS  in  the  Crescent  City  not  long  ago  befell 

The  tear-compelling  incident  I  now  propose  to  tell; 

So  come,  my  sweet  collector  friends,  and  listen  while  I  sing 

Unto  your  delectation  this  brief,  pathetic  thing — 

No  lyric  pitched  in  vaunting  key,  but  just  a  requiem 

Of  blowing  twenty  dollars  in  by  nine  o'clock  a.  m. 

Let  critic  folk  the  poet's  use  of  vulgar  slang  upbraid, 

But,  when  I  'm  speaking  by  the  card,  I  call  a  spade  a  spade; 

And  I,  who  have  been  touched  of  that  same  mania,  myself, 

Am  well  aware  that,  when  it  comes  to  parting  with  his  pelf, 

The  curio  collector  is  so  blindly  lost  in  sin 

That  he  doesn't  spend  his  money — he  simply  blows  it  in  I 


IN   NEW    ORLEANS  159 

In  Royal  street  (near  Conti)  there  's  a  lovely  curio-shop, 

And  there,  one  balmy,  fateful  morn,  it  was  my  chance  to  stop; 

To  stop  was  hesitation — in  a  moment  I  was  lost — 

That  kind  of  hesitation  does  not  hesitate  at  cost! 

I  spied  a  pewter  tankard  there,  and,  my!  it  was  a  gem — 

And  the  clock  in  old  St.  Louis  told  the  hour  of  eight  a.  m. ! 

Three  quaint  Bohemian  bottles,  too,  of  yellow  and  of  green, 
Cut  in  archaic  fashion  that  I  ne'er  before  had  seen; 
A  lovely,  hideous  platter  wreathed  about  with  pink  and  rose, 
With  its  curious  depression  into  which  the  gravy  flows; 
Two  dainty  silver  salts — oh,  there  was  no  resisting  them — 
And  I  'd  blown  in  twenty  dollars  by  nine  o'clock  a.  m. 

With  twenty  dollars,  one  who  is  a  prudent  man,  indeed, 
Can  buy  the  wealth  of  useful  things  his  wife  and  children  need; 
Shoes,  stockings,  knickerbockers,  gloves,  bibs>  nursing-bottles,  caps, 
A  gown — the  gown  for  which  his  spouse  too  long  has  pined,  per 
haps! 

These  and  ten  thousand  other  spectres  harrow  and  condemn 
The  man  who  's  blown  in  twenty  by  nine  o'clock  a.  m. 

Oh,  mean  advantage  conscience  takes  (and  one  that  I  abhor!) 
In  asking  one  this  question:     "What  did  you  buy  it  for?" 
Why  doesn't  conscience  ply  its  blessed  trade  before  the  act, 
Before  one's  cussedness  becomes  a  bald,  accomplished  fact — 
Before  one  's  fallen  victim  to  the  Tempter's  stratagem 
And  blown  in  twenty  dollars  by  nine  o'clock  a.  m.  ? 

Ah  me!   now  that  the  deed  is  done,  how  penitent  I  am! 
I  was  a  roaring  lion — behold  a  bleating  lamb! 
I  've  packed  and  shipped  those  precious  things  to  that  more  pre 
cious  wife 

Who  shares  with  our  sweet  babes  the  strange  vicissitudes  of  life, 
While  he  who,  in  his  folly,  gave  up  his  store  of  wealth 
Is  far  away,  and  means  to  keep  his  distance — for  his  health! 


160  WESTERN   AND    OTHER  VERSE 


MY  PLAYMATES 

THE  wind  comes  whispering  to  me  of  the  country  green  and  cool- 

Of  redwing  blackbirds  chattering  beside  a  reedy  pool; 

It  brings  me  soothing  fancies  of  the  homestead  on  the  hill, 

And  I  hear  the  thrush's  evening  song  and  the  robin's  morning  trill; 

So  I  fall  to  thinking  tenderly  of  those  I  used  to  know 

Where  the  sassafras  and  snakeroot  and  checkerberries  grow. 

What  has  become  of  Ezra  Marsh,  who  lived  on  Baker's  hill? 
And  what 's  become  of  Noble  Pratt,  whose  father  kept  the  mill  ? 
And  what 's  become  of  Lizzie  Crum  and  Anastasia  Snell, 
And  of  Roxie  Root,  who  'tended  school  in  Boston  for  a  spell  ? 
They  were  the  boys  and  they  the  girls  who  shared  my  youthful 

play— 
They  do  not  answer  to  my  call!     My  playmates — where  are  they  ? 

What  has  become  of  Levi  and  his  little  brother  Joe, 
Who  lived  next  door  to  where  we  lived  some  forty  years  ago  ? 
I  'd  like  to  see  the  Newton  boys  and  Quincy  Adams  Brown, 
And  Hepsy  Hall  and  Ella  Cowles,  who  spelled  the  whole  school 

down! 

And  Gracie  Smith,  the  Cutler  boys,  Leander  Snow,  and  all 
Who  I  am  sure  would  answer  could  they  only  hear  my  call! 

I  'd  like  to  see  Bill  Warner  and  the  Conkey  boys  again 

And  talk  about  the  times  we  used  to  wish  that  we  were  men! 

And  one — I  shall  not  name  her — could  I  see  her  gentle  face 

And  hear  her  girlish  treble  in  this  distant,  lonely  place! 

The  flowers  and  hopes  of  springtime — they  perished  long  ago, 

And  the  garden  where  they  blossomed  is  white  with  winter  snow. 

O  cottage  'neath  the  maples,  have  you  seen  those  girls  and  boys 
That  but  a  little  while  ago  made,  oh!   such  pleasant  noise? 

0  trees,  and  hills,  and  brooks,  and  lanes,  and  meadows,  do  you 

know 

Where  I  shall  find  my  little  friends  of  forty  years  ago  ? 
You  see  I  'm  old  and  weary,  and  I  've  travelled  long  and  far; 

1  am  looking  for  my  playmates — I  wonder  where  they  are! 


STOVES   AND   SUNSHINE  161 


STOVES    AND  SUNSHINE 

PRATE,  ye  who  will,  of  so-called  charms  you  find  across  the  sea — 
The  land  of  stoves  and  sunshine  is  good  enough  for  me! 
I  've  done  the  grand  for  fourteen  months  in  every  foreign  clime, 
And  I  've  learned  a  heap  of  learning,  but  I  've  shivered  all  the  time; 
And  the  biggest  bit  of  wisdom  I  've  acquired — as  I  can  see — 
Is  that  which  teaches  that  this  land  's  the  land  of  lands  for  me. 

Now,  I  am  of  opinion  that  a  person  should  get  some 

Warmth  in  this  present  life  of  ours,  not  all  in  that  to  come; 

So  when  Boreas  blows  his  blast,   through  country  and  through 

town, 

Or  when  upon  the  muddy  streets  the  stifling  fog  rolls  down, 
Go,  guzzle  in  a  pub,  or  plod  some  bleak  malarious  grove, 
But  let  me  toast  my  shrunken  shanks  beside  some  Yankee  stove. 

The  British  people  say  they  "don't  believe  in  stoves,  y'  know"; 
Perchance  because  we  warmed  'em  so  completely  years  ago! 
They  talk  of  "drahfts"  and  "stuffiness"  and  "ill  effects  of  heat," 
As  they  chatter  in  their  barny  rooms  or  shiver  'round  the  street; 
With  sunshine  such  a  rarity,  and  stoves  esteemed  a  sin, 
What  wonder  they  are  wedded  to  their  fads — catarrh  and  gin  ? 

In  Germany  are  stoves  galore,  and  yet  you  seldom  find 

A  fire  within  the  stoves,  for  German  stoves  are  not  that  kind; 

The  Germans   say   that  fires   make  dirt,   and   dirt 's   an   odious 

thing, 

But  the  truth  is  that  the  pfennig  is  the  average  Teuton's  king, 
And  since  the  fire  costs  pfennigs,  why,  the  thrifty  soul  denies 
Himself  all  heat  except  what  comes  with  beer  and  exercise. 

The  Frenchman  builds  a  fire  of  cones,  the  Irishman  of  peat; 
The  frugal  Dutchman  buys  a  fire  when  he  has  need  of  heat — 
That  is  to  say,  he  pays  so  much  each  day  to  one  who  brings 
The  necessary  living  coals  to  warm  his  soup  and  things; 
In  Italy  and  Spain  they  have  no  need  to  heat  the  house — 
Neath  balmy  skies  the  native  picks  the  mandolin  and  louse. 


162  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Now,  we  Ve  no  mouldy  catacombs,  no  feudal  castles  grim, 

No  ruined  monasteries,  no  abbeys  ghostly  dim; 

Our  ancient  history  is  new,  our  future  's  all  ahead, 

And  we  've  got  a  tariff  bill  that 's  made  all  Europe   sick  abed — 

But  what  is  best,  though  short  on  tombs  and  academic  groves, 

We  double  discount  Christendom  on  sunshine  and  on  stoves. 

Dear  land  of  mine!     I  come  to  you  from  months  of  chill  and 

storm, 

Blessing  the  honest  people  whose  hearts  and  hearths  are  warm; 
A  fairer,  sweeter  song  than  this  I  mean  to  weave  to  you 
When  I  Ve  reached  my  lakeside  'dobe  and  once  get  heated  through 
But,  even  then,  the  burthen  of  that  fairer  song  shall  be 
That  the  land  of  stoves  and  sunshine  is  good  enough  for  me. 


A  DRINKING  SONG 

COME,  brothers,  share  the  fellowship 

We  celebrate  to-night; 
There  's  grace  of  song  on  every  lip 

And  every  heart  is  light! 
But  first,  before  our  mentor  chimes 

The  hour  of  jubilee, 
Let 's  drink  a  health  to  good  old  times, 
And  good  times  yet  to  be! 
Clink,  clink,  clink! 
Merrily  let  us  drink! 
There  's  store  of  wealth 
And  more  of  health 
In  every  glass,  we  think. 
Clink,  clink,  clink! 
To  fellowship  we  drink! 
And  from  the  bowl 
No  genial  soul 
In  such  an  hour  can  shrink. 


THE   STRAW   PARLOR  163 

And  you,  oh,  friends  from  west  and  east 

And  other  foreign  parts, 
Come  share  the  rapture  of  our  feast, 

The  love  of  loyal  hearts; 
And  in  the  wassail  that  suspends 

All  matters  burthensome, 
We  '11  drink  a  health  to  good  old  friends 
And  good  friends  yet  to  come. 
Clink,  clink,  clink! 
To  fellowship  we  drink! 
And  from  the  bowl 
No  genial  soul 
In  such  an  hour  will  shrink. 
Clink,  clink,  clink! 
Merrily  let  us  drink! 
There  's  fellowship 
In  every  sip 
Of  friendship's  brew,  we  think. 


THE  STRAW  PARLOR 

WAY  up  at  the  top  of  a  big  stack  of  straw 

Was  the  cunningest  parlor  that  ever  you  saw! 

And  there  could  you  lie  when  weary  of  play 

And  gossip  or  laze  in  the  cosiest  way; 

No  matter  how  careworn  or  sorry  one's  mood 

No  worldly  distraction  presumed  to  intrude. 

As  a  refuge  from  onerous  mundane  ado 

I  think  I  approve  of  straw  parlors,  don't  you  ? 

A  swallow  with  jewels  aflame  on  her  breast 

On  that  straw  parlor's  ceiling  had  builded  her  nest; 

And  she  flew  in  and  out  all  the  happy  day  long, 

And  twittered  the  soothingest  lullaby  song. 

Now  some  might  suppose  that  that  beautiful  bird 

Performed  for  her  babies  the  music  they  heard; 

7  reckon  she  twittered  her  repertoire  through 

For  the  folk  in  the  little  straw  parlor,  don't  you? 


164  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

And  down  from  a  rafter  a  spider  had  hung 
Some  swings  upon  which  he  incessantly  swung. 
.  He  cut  up  such  didoes — such  antics  he  played 
Way  up  in  the  air,  and  was  never  afraid! 
He  never  made  use  of  his  horrid  old  sting, 
But  was  just  upon  earth  for  the  fun  of  the  thing! 
I  deeply  regret  to  observe  that  so  few 
Of  these  good-natured  insects  are  met  with,  don't  you  ? 

And,  down  in  the  strawstack,  a  wee  little  mite 
Of  a  cricket  went  chirping  by  day  and  by  night; 
And  further  down,  still,  a  cunning  blue  mouse 
In  a  snug  little  nook  of  that  strawstack  kept  house! 
When  the  cricket  went  "chirp,"  Miss  Mousie  would  squeak 
"Come  in,"  and  a  blush  would  enkindle  her  cheek! 
She  thought — silly  girl!   'twas  a  beau  come  to  woo, 
But  I  guess  it  was  only  the  cricket,  don't  you? 

So  the  cricket,  the  mouse,  and  the  motherly  bird 
Made  as  soothingsome  music  as  ever  you  heard; 
And,  meanwhile,  that  spider  by  means  of  his  swings 
Achieved  most  astounding  gyrations  and  things! 
No  wonder  the  little  folk  liked  what  they  saw 
And  loved  what  they  heard  in  that  parlor  of  straw! 
With  the  mercury  up  to  102 
In  the  shade,  I  opine  they  just  sizzled,  don't  you  ? 

But  once  there  invaded  that  Eden  of  straw 

The  evilest  Feline  that  ever  you  saw! 

She  pounced  on  that  cricket  with  rare  promptitude 

And  she  tucked  him  away  where  he'd  do  the  most  good; 

And  then,  reaching  down  to  the  nethermost  house, 

She  deftly  expiscated  little  Miss  Mouse! 

And,  as  for  the  Swallow,  she  shrieked  and  withdrew — 

I  rather  admire  her  discretion,  don't  you  ? 

Now  listen:    That  evening  a  cyclone  obtained, 
And  the  mortgage  was  all  on  that  farm  that  remained! 
Barn,  strawstack  and  spider — they  all  blew  away, 
And  nobody  knows  where  they're  at  to  this  day! 


THE  DISCREET  COLLECTOR  165 

And,  as  for  the  little  straw  parlor,  I  fear 

It  was  wafted  clean  off  this  sublunary  sphere! 

I  really  incline  to  a  hearty  "boo-hoo" 

When  I  think  of  this  tragical  ending,  don't  you  ? 


THE  DISCREET  COLLECTOR 

DOWN  south  there  is  a  curio-shop 
Unknown  to  many  men; 

Thereat  do  I  intend  to  stop 
When  I  am  South  again; 

The  narrow  street  through  which  to  go— 
Aha!   I  know  it  well! 

And  maybe  you  would  like  to  know — 
But  no — I  will  not  tell! 

'T  is  there  to  find  the  loveliest  plates 

(The  bluest  of  the  blue!) 
At  such  surprisingly  low  rates 

You  'd  not  believe  it  true! 
And  there  is  one  Napoleon  vase 

Of  dainty  Sevres  to  sell — 
I  'm  sure  you  'd  like  to  know  that  place — 

But  no — I  will  not  tell! 

Then,  too,  I  know  another  shop 

Has  old,  old  beds  for  sale, 
With  lovely  testers  up  on  top 

Carved  in  ornate  detail; 
And  there  are  sideboards  rich  and  rare, 

With  fronts  that  proudly  swell— 
Oh,  there  are  bargains  waiting  there, 

But  where  I  will  not  tell! 

And  hark!   I  know  a  bottle-man 

Smiling  and  debonair, 
And  he  has  promised  me  I  can 

Choose  of  his  precious  ware! 


166  WESTERN   AND    OTHERN   VERSE 

In  age  and  shape  and  color,  too, 
His  dainty  goods  excel — 

Aha,  my  friends,  if  you  but  knew — 
But  no!   I  will  not  tell! 

A  thousand  other  shops  I  know 

Where  bargains  can  be  got — 
Where  other  folk  would  like  to  go 

Who  have  what  I  have  not. 
I  let  them  hunt;   I  hold  my  mouth — 

Yes,  though  I  know  full  well 
Where  lie  the  treasures  of  the  South, 

I  'm  not  a-going  to  tell! 


THE  WIND 

(THE  TALE) 

COMETH  the  Wind  from  the  garden,  fragrant  and  full  of  sweet 

singing— 
Under  my  tree  where  I  sit  cometh  the  Wind  to  confession. 

"Out  in  the  garden  abides  the  Queen  of  the  beautiful  Roses — 
Her  do  I  love  and  to-night  wooed  her  with  passionate  singing; 
Told   I   my   love   in   those   songs,  and  answer  she   gave   in  her 

blushes — 
She  shall  be  bride  of  the  Wind,  and  she  is  the  Queen  of   the 

Roses!" 

"Wind,  there  is  spice  in  thy  breath;    thy  rapture  hath  fragrance 
Sabsean!" 

"Straight  from  my  wooing  I  come — my  lips  are  bedewed  with  her 

kisses — 
My  lips  and  my  song  and  my  heart  are  drunk  with  the  rapture 

of  loving!" 


THE   WIND  167 

(THE  SONG) 

The  Wind  he  loveth  the  red,  red  Rose, 
And  he  wooeth  his  love  to  wed: 
Sweet  is  his  song 
The  Summer  long 
As  he  kisseth  her  lips  so  red; 
And  he  recketh  naught  of  the  ruin  wrought 
When  the  Summer  of  love  is  sped! 

(AGAIN  THE  TALE) 
Cometh  the  Wind  from  the  garden,  bitter  with  sorrow  of  winter. 

"Wind,  is  thy  love-song  forgot?  Wherefore  thy  dread  lamenta 
tions?" 

Sigheth  and  moaneth  the  Wind:     "Out  of  the  desolate  garden 
Come  I  from  vigils  with  ghosts  over  the  grave  of  the  Summer!" 

"Thy  breath  that  was  fragrant  anon  with  rapture  of  music  and 

loving, 
It  grieveth  all  things  with  its  sting  and  the  frost  of  its  wailing 

displeasure." 

The  Wind  maketh  evermore  moan  and  ever  it  giveth  this  answer: 

"My  heart  it  is  numb  with  the  cold  of  the  love  that  was  born  of 
the  Summer — 

I  come  from  the  garden  all  white  with  the  wrath  and  the  sorrow 
of  Winter; 

I  have  kissed  the  low,  desolate  tomb  where  my  bride  in  her  loveli 
ness  lieth 

And  the  voice  of  the  ghost  in  my  heart  is  the  voice  that  forever 
outcrieth!" 

(AGAIN  THE  SONG) 

The  Wind  he  waileth  the  red,  red  Rose 
When  the  Summer  of  love  is  sped — 


168  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

He  waileth  above 

His  lifeless  love 

With  her  shroud  of  snow  o'erspread — 
Crieth  such  things  as  a  true  heart  brings 
To  the  grave  of  its  precious  dead. 


A  PARAPHRASE 

OUR  Father  who  art  in  Heaven,  hallowed  be  Thy  name; 

Thy  Kingdom  come,  Thy  will  be  done  on  earth,  in  Heaven  the 

same; 

Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread,  and  may  our  debts  to  Heaven — 
As  we  our  earthly  debts  forgive — by  Thee  be  all  forgiven; 
When  tempted  or  by  evil  vexed,  restore  Thou  us  again, 
And  Thine  be  the  Kingdom,  the  Power,  and  the  Glory,  forever  and 

ever;   amen. 


WITH  BRUTUS  IN  ST.   JO 

OF  all  the  opry-houses  then  obtaining  in  the  West 
The  one  which  Milton  Tootle  owned  was,  by  all  odds,  the  best; 
Milt,  being  rich,  was  much  too  proud  to  run  the  thing  alone, 
So  he  hired  an  "acting  manager,"  a  gruff  old  man  named  Krone — 
A  stern,  commanding  man  with  piercing  eyes  and  flowing  beard, 
And  his  voice  assumed  a  thunderous  tone  when  Jack  and  I  ap 
peared; 

He  said  that  Julius  Caesar  had  been  billed  a  week  or  so, 
And  would  have  to  have  some  armies  by  the  time  he  reached  St.  Jo! 

O  happy  days,  when  Tragedy  still  winged  an  upward  flight, 
When  actors  wore  tin  helmets  and  cambric  robes  at  night! 
O  happy  days,  when  sounded  in  the  public's  rapturous  ears 
The  creak  of  pasteboard  armor  and  the  clash  of  wooden  spears! 
O  happy  times  for  Jack  and  me  and  that  one  other  supe 
That  then  and  there  did  constitute  the  noblest  Roman's  troop! 
With  togas,  battle  axes,  shields,  we  made  a  dazzling  show, 
When  we  were  Roman  soldiers  with  Brutus  in  St.  Jo! 


WITH   BRUTUS   IN   ST.   JO  169 

We  wheeled  and  filed  and  double-quicked  wherever  Brutus  led, 
The  folks  applauding  what  we  did  as  much  as  what  he  said; 
'T  was  work,  indeed;   yet  Jack  and  I  were  willing  to  allow 
'T  was  easier  following  Brutus  than  following  father's  plough; 
And  at  each  burst  of  cheering,  our  valor  would  increase — 
We  tramped  a  thousand  miles  that  night,  at  fifty  cents  apiece! 
For  love  of  Art — not  lust  for  gold — consumed  us  years  ago, 
When  we  were  Roman  soldiers  with  Brutus  in  St.  Jo! 

To-day,  while  walking  in  the  Square,  Jack  Langrish  says  to  me: 
"My  friend,  the  drama  nowadays  ain't  what  it  used  to  be! 
These  farces  and  these  comedies — how  feebly  they  compare 
With  that  mantle  of  the  tragic  art  which  Forrest  used  to  wear! 
My  soul  is  warped  with  bitterness  to  think  that  you  and  I — 
Co-heirs  to  immortality  in  seasons  long  gone  by — 
Now  draw  a  paltry  stipend  from  a  Boston  comic  show, 
We,  who  were  Roman  soldiers  with  Brutus  in  St.  Jo!" 

And  so  we  talked  and  so  we  mused  upon  the  whims  of  Fate 
That  had  degraded  Tragedy  from  its  old,  supreme  estate; 
And  duly,  at  the  Morton  bar,  we  stigmatized  the  age 
As  sinfully  subversive  of  the  interests  of  the  Stage! 
For  Jack  and  I  were  actors  in  the  halcyon,  palmy  days 
Long,  long  before  the  Hoyt  school  of  farce  became  the  craze; 
Yet,  as  I  now  recall  it,  it  was  twenty  years  ago 
That  we  were  Roman  soldiers  with  Brutus  in  St.  Jo! 

We  were  by  birth  descended  from  a  race  of  farmer  kings 
Who  had  done  eternal  battle  with  grasshoppers  and  things; 
But  the  Kansas  farms  grew  tedious — we  pined  for  that  delight 
We  read  of  in  the  Clipper  in  the  barber's  shop  by  night! 
We  would  be  actors — Jack  and  I — and  so  we  stole  away 
From  our  native  spot,  Wathena,  one  dull  September  day, 
And  started  for  Missouri — ah,  little  did  we  know 
We  were  going  to  train  as  soldiers  with  Brutus  in  St.  Jo! 

Our  army  numbered  three  in  all — Marc  Antony's  was  four; 
Our  army  hankered  after  fame,  but  Marc's  was  after  gore! 
And  when  we  reached  Philippi,  at  the  outset  we  were  met 
With  an  inartistic  gusto  I  can  never  quite  forget. 


170  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

For  Antony's  overwhelming  force  of  thumpers  seemed  to  be 
Resolved  to  do  "them  Kansas  jays" — and  that  meant  Jack  and  me! 
My  lips  were  sealed  but  that  it  seems  quite  proper  you  should  know 
That  Rome  was  nowhere  in  it  at  Philippi  in  St.  Jo! 

I've  known  the  slow-consuming  grief  and  ostentatious  pain 
Accruing  from  McKean  Buchanan's  melancholy  Dane; 
Away  out  West  I've  witnessed  Bandmann's  peerless  hardihood, 
With  Arthur  Cambridge  have  I  wrought  where  walking  was  not 

good; 

In  every  phase  of  horror  have  I  bravely  borne  my  part, 
And  even  on  my  uppers  have  I  proudly  stood  for  Art! 
And,  after  all  my  suffering,  it  were  not  hard  to  show 
That  I  got  my  allopathic  dose  with  Brutus  at  St.  Jol 

That  army  fell  upon  me  in  a  most  bewildering  rage 

And  scattered  me  and  mine  upon  that  histrionic  stage; 

My  toga  rent,  my  helmet  gone  and  smashed  to  smithereens, 

They  picked  me  up  and  hove  me  through  whole  centuries  of  scenes ! 

I  sailed  through  Christian  eras  and  mediaeval  gloom 

And  fell  from  Arden  forest  into  Juliet's  painted  tomb! 

Oh,  yes,  I  travelled  far  and  fast  that  night,  and  I  can  show 

The  scars  of  honest  wounds  I  got  with  Brutus  in  St.  Jo! 

Ah  me,  old  Davenport  is  gone,  of  fickle  fame  forgot, 
And  Barrett  sleeps  forever  in  a  much  neglected  spot; 
Fred  Warde,  the  papers  tell  me,  in  far  woolly  western  lands 
Still  flaunts  the  banner  of  high  Tragic  Art  at  one-night  stands; 
And  Jack  and  I,  in  Charley  Hoyt's  Bostonian  dramas  wreak 
Our  vengeance  on  creation  at  some  eensty  dolls,  per  week. 
By  which  you  see  that  public  taste  has  fallen  mighty  low 
Since  we  fought  as  Roman  soldiers  with  Brutus  in  St.  Jo! 


PAN   LIVETH  171 


PAN  LIVETH 

THEY  told  me  once  that  Pan  was  dead, 

And  so,  in  sooth,  I  thought  him; 
For  vainly  where  the  streamlets  led 

Through  flowery  meads  I  sought  him- 
Nor  in  his  dewy  pasture  bed 
Nor  in  the  grove  I  caught  him. 

"  Tell  me,"  'twas  so  my  clamor  ran- 
"  Tell  me,  oh,  where  is  Pan?" 

But,  once,  as  on  my  pipe  I  played 

A  requiem  sad  and  tender, 
Lo,  thither  came  a  shepherd-maid — 

Full  comely  she  and  slender! 

I  were  indeed  a  churlish  blade 

With  wailings  to  offend  'er — 

For,  surely,  wooing' s  sweeter  than 
A  mourning  over  Pan! 

So,  presently,  whiles  I  did  scan 

That  shepherd-maiden  pretty, 

And  heard  her  accents,  I  began 

To  pipe  a  cheerful  ditty; 
And  so,  betimes,  forgot  old  Pan 
Whose  death  had  waked  my  pity; 
So — so  did  Love  undo  the  man 
Who  sought  and  pined  for  Pan! 

He  was  not  dead!     I  found  him  there— 

The  Pan  that  I  was  after! 
Caught  in  that  maiden's  tangling  hair, 
Drunk  with  her  song  and  laughter! 
I  doubt  if  there  be  otherwhere 
A  merrier  god  or  dafter — 

Nay,  nor  a  mortal  kindlier  than 
Is  this  same  dear  old  Pan! 


172  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Beside  me,  as  my  pipe  I  play, 

My  shepherdess  is  lying, 
While  here  and  there  her  lambkins  stray 

As  sunny  hours  go  flying; 
They  look  like  me — those  lambs — they  say, 
And  that  I  'm  not  denying! 

And  for  that  sturdy,  romping  clan, 
All  glory  be  to  Pan! 

Pan  is  not  dead,  O  sweetheart  mine  I 

It  is  to  hear  his  voices 
In  every  note  and  every  line 
Wherein  the  heart  rejoices! 
He  liveth  in  that  sacred  shrine 
That  Love's  first,  holiest  choice  is! 
So  pipe,  my  pipe,  while  still  you  can, 
Sweet  songs  in  praise  of  Pan! 


DR.   SAM 

TO   MISS   GRACE   KING 

DOWN  in  the  old  French  quarter, 
Just  out  of  Rampart  street, 
I  went  my  way 
At  close  of  day 
Unto  the  quaint  retreat 
Where  lives  the  Voodoo  Doctor 

By  some  esteemed  a  sham, 
Yet  I  '11  declare  there  's  none  elsewhere 
So  skilled  as  Doctor  Sam 

With  the  claws  of  a  devilled  crawfish, 
The  juice  of  the  prickly  prune, 
And  the  quivering  dew 
From  a  yarb  that  grew 
In  the  light  of  a  midnight  moon! 


DR.   SAM  173 

I  never  should  have  known  him 
But  for  the  colored  folk 
That  here  obtain 
And  ne'er  in  vain 
That  wizard's  art  invoke; 
For  when  the  Eye  that 's  Evil 
Would  him  and  his'n  damn, 
The  negro's  grief  gets  quick  relief 
Of  Hoodoo-Doctor  Sam. 

With  the  caul  of  an  alligator, 
The  plume  of  an  unborn  loon, 
And  the  poison  wrung 
From  a  serpent's  tongue 
By  the  light  of  the  midnight  moon ! 

In  all  neurotic  ailments 
I  hear  that  he  excels, 
And  he  insures 
Immediate  cures 
Of  weird,  uncanny  spells; 
The  most  unruly  patient 
Gets  docile  as  a  lamb 
And  is  freed  from  ill  by  the  potent  skill 
Of  Hoodoo-Doctor  Sam; 

Feathers  of  strangled  chickens, 
Moss  from  the  dank  lagoon, 
And  plasters  wet 
With  spider  sweat 
In  the  light  of  a  midnight  moon! 

They  say  when  nights  are  grewsome 
And  hours  are,  oh!   so  late, 
Old  Sam  steals  out 
And  hunts  about 
For  charms  that  hoodoos  hate! 
That  from  the  moaning  river 
And  from  the  haunted  glen 
He  silently  brings  what  eerie  things 
Give  peace  to  hoodooed  men: — 


174  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

The  tongue  of  a  piebald  'possum, 

The  tooth  of  a  senile  'coon, 
The  buzzard's  breath  that  smells  of  death, 
And  the  film  that  lies 
On  a  lizard's  eyes 
In  the  light  of  a  midnight  moon! 


WINFREDA 

(A   BALLAD   IN   THE  ANGLO-SAXON  TONGUE) 

WHEN  to  the  dreary  greenwood  gloam 
Winfreda's  husband  strode  that  day, 

The  fair  Winfreda  bode  at  home 
To  toil  the  weary  time  away; 

"While  thou  are  gone  to  hunt,"  said  she, 

"I  '11  brew  a  goodly  sop  for  thee." 

Lo,  from  a  further,  gloomy  wood, 
A  hungry  wolf  all  bristling  hied 

And  on  the  cottage  threshold  stood 
And  saw  the  dame  at  work  inside; 

And,  as  he  saw  the  pleasing  sight, 

He  licked  his  fangs  so  sharp  and  white. 

Now  when  Winfreda  saw  the  beast, 
Straight  at  the  grinning  wolf  she  ran, 

And,  not  affrighted  in  the  least, 
She  hit  him  with  her  cooking  pan, 

And  as  she  thwacked  him  on  the  head— 

"Scat!   scat!"   the  fair  Winfreda  said. 

The  hills  gave  answer  to  their  din — 
The  brook  in  fear  beheld  the  sight, 

And  all  that  bloody  field  within 
Wore  token  of  Winfreda's  might. 

The  wolf  was  very  loath  to  stay — 

But,  oh!   he  could  not  get  away. 


LYMAN,   FREDERICK,   AND   JIM  175 

Winfreda  swept  him  o'er  the  wold 
And  choked  him  till  his  gums  were  blue, 

And  till,  beneath  her  iron  hold, 

His  tongue  hung  out  a  yard  or  two, 

And  with  his  hair  the  riven  ground 

Was  strewn  for  many  leagues  around. 

They  fought  a  weary  time  that  day, 

And  seas  of  purple  blood  were  shed, 
Till  by  Winfreda's  cunning  lay 

That  awful  wolf  all  limp  and  dead; 
Winfreda  saw  him  reel  and  drop — 
Then  back  she  went  to  brewing  sop. 

So  when  the  husband  came  at  night 

From  bootless  chase,  cold,  gaunt,  and  grim, 

Great  was  that  Saxon  lord's  delight 
To  find  the  sop  dished  up  for  him; 

And  as  he  ate,  Winfreda  told 

How  she  had  laid  the  wolf  out  cold. 

The  good  Winfreda  of  those  days 

Is  only  "pretty  Birdie"  now — 
Sickly  her  soul  and  weak  her  ways — 

And  she,  to  whom  we  Saxons  bow, 
Leaps  on  a  bench  and  screams  with  fright 
If  but  a  mouse  creeps  into  sight. 


LYMAN,  FREDERICK,  AND   JIM 

(FOR  THE   FELLOWSHIP   CLUfi) 

LYMAN  and  Frederick  and  Jim,  one  day, 

Set  out  in  a  great  big  ship — 
Steamed  to  the  ocean  adown  the  bay 

Out  of  a  New  York  slip. 
"Where  are  you  going  and  what  is  your  game?: 

The  people  asked  those  three. 


176  WESTERN   AND    OTHER  VERSE 

"Darned  if  we  know;   but  all  the  same 
Happy  as  larks  are  we; 
And  happier  still  we  're  going  to  be!" 

Said  Lyman 

And  Frederick 

And  Jim. 

The  people  laughed  "Aha,  oho! 

Oho,  aha!"    laughed  they; 
And  while  those  three  went  sailing  so 

Some  pirates  steered  that  way. 
The  pirates  they  were  laughing,  too — 

The  prospect  made  them  glad; 
But  by  the  time  the  job  was  through 
Each  of  them  pirates,  bold  and  bad, 
Had  been  done  out  of  all  he  had 
By  Lyman 
And  Frederick 
And  Jim. 

Days  and  weeks  and  months  they  sped, 

Painting  that  foreign  clime 
A  beautiful,  bright  vermilion  red — 

And  having  a of  a  time! 

'T  was  all  so  gaudy  a  lark,  it  seemed 

As  if  it  could  not  be, 

And  some  folks  thought  it  a  dream  they  dreamed 
Of  sailing  that  foreign  sea, 
But  I  '11  identify  you  these  three — 
Lyman 

And  Frederick 
And  Jim. 

Lyman  and  Frederick  are  bankers  and  sich 

And  Jim  is  an  editor  kind; 
The  first  two  named  are  awfully  rich 

And  Jim  ain't  far  behind! 
So  keep  your  eyes  open  and  mind  your  tricks, 

Or  you  are  like  to  be 
In  quite  as  much  of  a  Tartar  fix 


BE    MY   SWEETHEART  177 

As  the  pirates  that  sailed  the  sea 

And  monkeyed  with  the  pardners  three, 

Lyman 

And  Frederick 

And  Jim! 


BE  MY  SWEETHEART 

SWEETHEART,  be  my  sweetheart 
When  birds  are  on  the  wing, 

When  bee  and  bud  and  babbling  flood 
Bespeak  the  birth  of  spring, 

Come,  sweetheart,  be  my  sweetheart 
And  wear  this  posy-ring! 

Sweetheart,  be  my  sweetheart 

In  the  mellow  golden  glow 
Of  earth  aflush  with  the  gracious  blush 

Which  the  ripening  fields  foreshow; 
Dear  sweetheart,  be  my  sweetheart, 

As  into  the  noon  we  go! 

Sweetheart,  be  my  sweetheart 
When  falls  the  bounteous  year, 

When  fruit  and  wine  of  tree  and  vine 
Give  us  their  harvest  cheer; 

Oh,  sweetheart,  be  my  sweetheart, 
For  winter  it  draweth  near. 

Sweetheart,  be  my  sweetheart 
When  the  year  is  white  and  old, 

When  the  fire  of  youth  is  spent,  forsooth, 
And  the  hand  of  age  is  cold; 

Yet,  sweetheart,  be  my  sweetheart 
Till  the  year  of  our  love  be.  told! 


178  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 


THE  PETER-BIRD 

OUT  of  the  woods  by  the  creek  cometh  a  calling  for  Peter, 

And  from  the  orchard  a  voice  echoes  and  echoes  it  over; 

Down  in  the  pasture  the  sheep  hear  that  strange  crying  for  Peter, 

Over  the  meadows  that  call  is  aye  and  forever  repeated. 

So  let  me  tell  you  the  tale,  when,  where,  and  how  it  all  happened, 

And,  when  the  story  is  told,  let  us  pay  heed  to  the  lesson. 

Once  on  a  time,  long  ago,  lived  in  the  State  of  Kentucky 

One  that  was  reckoned  a  witch — full  of  strange  spells  and  devices; 

Nightly  she  wandered  the  woods,  searching  for  charms  voodoo- 

istic — 

Scorpions,  lizards,  and  herbs,  dormice,  chameleons,  and  plantains! 
Serpents  and  caw-caws  and  bats,  screech-owls  and  crickets  and 

adders — 
These  were  the  guides  of  that  witch  through  the  dank  deeps  of 

the  forest. 

Then,  with  her  roots  and  her  herbs,  back  to  her  cave  in  the  morning 
Ambled  that  hussy  to  brew  spells  of  unspeakable  evil; 
And,  when  the  people  awoke,  seeing  that  hillside  and  valley 
Sweltered  in  swathes  as  of  mist — "Look!"   they  would  whisper  in 

terror — 

"Look!  the  old  witch  is  at  work  brewing  her  spells  of  great  evil!" 
Then  would  they  pray  till  the  sun,  darting  his  rays  through  the 

vapor, 
Lifted  the  smoke  from  the  earth  and  baffled  the  witch's  intentions. 

One  of  the  boys  at  that  time  was  a  certain  young  person  named 

Peter, 

Given  too  little  to  work,  given  too  largely  to  dreaming; 
Fonder  of  books  than  of  chores,  you  can  imagine  that  Peter 
Led  a  sad  life  on  the  farm,  causing  his  parents  much  trouble. 
"Peter!"   his    mother   would    call,    "the   cream    is   a'ready   for 

churning!" 
"Peter!"   his  father  would  cry,  "go  grub  at  the  weeds  in  the 

garden!" 

So  it  was  "Peter!"   all  day — calling,  reminding,  and  chiding — 
Peter  neglected  his  work;   therefore  that  nagging  at  Peter  1 


THE    PETER-BIRD  179 

Peter  got  hold  of  some  books — how,  I  'm  unable  to  tell  you; 
Some  have  suspected  the  witch — this  is  no  place  for  suspicions! 
It  is  sufficient  to  stick  close  to  the  thread  of  the  legend. 
Nor  is  it  stated  or  guessed  what  was  the  trend  of  those  volumes; 
What  thing  soever  it  was — done  with  a  pen  and  a  pencil, 
Wrought  with  a  brain,  not  a  hoe — surely  't  was  hostile  to  farming! 
" Fudge  on  all  readin'!"   they  quoth;   or  "that's  what's  the  ruin 
of  Peter!" 

So,  when  the  mornings  were  hot,  under  the  beech  or  the  maple, 
Cushioned  in  grass  that  was  blue,  breathing  the  breath  of  the 'blos 
soms, 

Lulled  by  the  hum  of  the  bees,  the  coo  of  the  ring-doves  a-mating, 
Peter  would  frivol  his  time  at  reading,  or  lazing,  or  dreaming. 
"Peter!"     his    mother   would    call,   "the   cream   is  a'  ready  for 

churning!" 
"Peter!"   his  father  would  cry,   "go  grub  at  the  weeds  in  the 

garden!" 

"Peter!"  and  "Peter!"  all  day — calling,  reminding,  and  chiding — 
Peter  neglected  his  chores;   therefore  that  outcry  for  Peter; 
Therefore  the  neighbors  allowed  evil  would  surely  befall  him — 
Yes,  on  account  of  these  things,  ruin  would  come  upon  Peter! 

Surely  enough,  on  a  time,  reading  and  lazing  and  dreaming 
Wrought  the  calamitous  ill  all  had  predicted  for  Peter; 
For,  of  a  morning  in  spring  when  lay  the  mist  in  the  valleys — 
"See,"  quoth  the  folk,  "how  the  witch  breweth  her  evil  decoctions! 
See  how  the  smoke  from  her  fire  broodeth  on  woodland  and  meadow! 
Grant  that  the  sun  cometh  out  to  smother  the  smudge  of  her 

caldron! 

She  hath  been  forth  in  the  night,  full  of  her  spells  and  devices, 
Roaming  the  marshes  and  dells  for  heathenish  magical  nostrums; 
Digging  in  leaves  and  at  stumps  for  centipedes,  pismires,   and 

spiders, 

Grubbing  in  poisonous  pools  for  hot  salamanders  and  toadstools; 
Charming  the  bats  from  the  flues,  snaring  the  lizards  by  twilight, 
Sucking  the  scorpion's  egg  and  milking  the  breast  of  the  adder!" 

Peter  derided  these  things  held  in  such  faith  by  the  farmer, 
Scouted  at  magic  and  charms,  hooted  at  Jonahs  and  hoodoos — 


180  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Thinking  and  reading  of  books  must  have  unsettled  his  reason! 
"There  ain't  no  witches,"  he  cried;    "it  is  n't  smoky,  but  foggy! 
I  will  go  out  in  the  wet — you  all  can't  hender  me,  nuther!" 

Surely  enough  he  went  out  into  the  damp  of  the  morning, 
Into  the  smudge  that  the  witch  spread  over  woodland  and  meadow, 
Into  the  fleecy  gray  pall  brooding  on  hillside  and  valley. 
Laughing  and  scoffing,  he  strode  into  that  hideous  vapor; 
Just  as  he  said  he  would  do,  just  as  he  bantered  and  threatened, 
Ere  they  could  fasten  the  door,  Peter  had  done  gone  and  done  it! 
Wasting  his  time  over  books,  you  see,  had  unsettled  his  reason — 
Soddened  his  callow  young  brain  with  semipubescent  paresis, 
And  his  neglect  of  his  chores  hastened  this  evil  condition. 

Out  of  the  woods  by  the  creek  cometh  a  calling  for  Peter 
And  from  the  orchard  a  voice  echoes  and  echoes  it  over; 
Down  in  the  pasture  the  sheep  hear  that  shrill  crying  for  Peter, 
Up  from  the  spring  house  the  wail  stealeth  anon  like  a  whisper, 
Over  the  meadows  that  call  is  aye  and  for  ever  repeated. 
Such  were  the  voices  that  whooped  wildly  and  vainly  for  Peter 
Decades  and  decades  ago  down  in  the  State  of  Kentucky — 
Such  are  the  voices  that  cry  now  from  the  woodland  and  meadow, 
"Peter — O  Peter!"    all  day,  calling,  reminding,  and  chiding — 
Taking  us  back  to  the  time  when  Peter  he  done  gone  and  done  it! 
These  are  the  voices  of  those  left  by  the  boy  in  the  farmhouse 
When,   with  his   laughter  and  scorn,   hatless  and  bootless  and 

sockless, 

Clothed  in  his  jeans  and  his  pride,  Peter  sailed  out  in  the  weather, 
Broke  from  the  warmth  of  his  home  into  that  fog  of  the  devil, 
Into  the  smoke  of  that  witch  brewing  her  damnable  porridge! 

Lo,  when  he  vanished  from  sight,  knowing  the  evil  that  threatened, 
Forth  with  importunate  cries  hastened  his  father  and  mother. 
"Peter!"     they    shrieked    in    alarm,    "Peter!"     and    evermore 

"Peter!"— 

Ran  from  the  house  to  the  barn,  ran  from  the  barn  to  the  garden, 
Ran  to  the  corn-crib  anon,  then  to  the  smoke-house  proceeded; 
Henhouse   and   woodpile   they   passed,    calling  and  wailing  and 

weeping, 
Through  the  front  gate  to  the  road,  braving  the  hideous  vapor — 


THE    PETER-BIRD  181 

* 

Sought  him  in  lane  and  on  pike,  called  him  in  orchard  and  meadow, 

Clamoring  "Peter!"  in  vain,  vainly  outcrying  for  Peter. 

Joining  the  search  came  the  rest,  brothers  and  sisters  and  cousins, 

Venting  unspeakable  fears  in  pitiful  wailing  for  Peter! 

And  from  the  neighboring  farms  gathered  the  men  and  the  women, 

Who,  upon  hearing  the  news,  swelled  the  loud  chorus  for  Peter. 

Farmers  and  hussifs  and  maids,  bosses  and  field-hands  and  niggers, 
Colonels  and  jedges  galore  from  cornfields  and  mint-beds  and 

thickets, 

All  that  had  voices  to  voice,  all  to  those  parts  appertaining, 
Came  to  engage  in  the  search,  gathered  and  bellowed  for  Peter. 
The  Taylors,  the  Dorseys,  the  Browns,  the  Wallers,  the  Mitchells, 

the  Logans, 
The  Yenowines,  Crittendens,  Dukes,  the  Hickmans,  the  Hobbses, 

the  Morgans; 
The  Ormsbys,  the  Thompsons,  the  Hikes,  the  Williamsons,  Mur- 

rays,  and  Hard  ins, 
The  Beynroths,  the  Sherleys,  the  Hokes,  the  Haldermans,  Harneys, 

and  Slaughters — 

All,  famed  in  Kentucky  of  old  for  prowess  prodigious  at  farming, 
Now  surged  from  their  prosperous  homes  to  join  in  that  hunt  for 

the  truant, 
To  ascertain  where  he  was  at,  to  help  out  the  chorus  for  Peter. 

Still  on  those  prosperous  farms  where  heirs  and  assigns  of  the 

people 

Specified  hereinabove  and  proved  by  the  records  of  probate — 
Still  on  those  farms  shall  you  hear  (and  still  on  the  turnpikes  ad 
jacent) 

That  pitiful,  petulant  call,  that  pleading,  expostulant  wailing, 
That  hopeless,  monotonous  moan,  that  crooning  and  droning  for 

Peter. 
Some  say  the  witch  in  her  wrath  transmogrified  all  those  good 

people; 
That,  wakened  from  slumber  that  day  by  the  calling  and  bawling 

for  Peter, 

She  out  of  her  cave  in  a  trice,  and,  waving  the  foot  of  a  rabbit 
(Crossed  with  the  caul  of  a  coon  and  smeared  with  the  blood  of  a 
chicken), 


182  WESTERN  AND    OTHER   VERSE 

She  changed  all  those  folk  into  birds  and  shrieked  with  demoniac 

venom: 

"Fly  away  over  the  land,  moaning  your  Peter  forever, 
Croaking  of  Peter,  the  boy  who  did  n't  believe  there  were  hoodoos, 
Crooning  of  Peter,  the  fool  who  scouted  at  stories  of  witches, 
Crying  of  Peter  for  aye,  forever  outcalling  for  Peter!" 

This  is  the  story  they  tell;  so  in  good  sooth  saith  the  legend; 
As  I  have  told  it  to  you,  so  tell  the  folk  and  the  legend. 
That  it  is  true  I  believe,  for  on  the  breezes  this  morning 
Come  the  shrill  voices  of  birds  calling  and  calling  for  Peter; 
Out  of  the  maple  and  beech  glitter  the  eyes  of  the  wailers, 
Peeping  and  peering  for  him  who  formerly  lived  in  these  places — 
Peter,  the  heretic  lad,  lazy  and  careless  and  dreaming, 
Sorely  afflicted  with  books  and  with  pubescent  paresis, 
Hating  the  things  of  the  farm,  care  of  the  barn  and  the  garden, 
Always  neglecting  his  chores — given  to  books  and  to  reading, 
Which,  as  all  people  allow,  turn  the  young  person  to  mischief, 
Harden  his  heart  against  toil,  wean  his  affections  from  tillage. 

This  is  the  legend  of  yore  told  in  the  state  of  Kentucky 
When  in  the  springtime  the  birds  call  from  the  beeches  and  maples, 
Call  from  the  petulant  thorn,  call  from  the  acrid  persimmon; 
When  from  the  woods  by  the  creek  and  from  the  pastures  and 

meadows, 
When  from  the  spring  house  and  lane  and  from  the  mint-bed  and 

orchard, 

When  from  the  redbud  and  gum  and  from  the  redolent  lilac, 
When  from  the  dirt  roads  and  pikes  cometh  that  calling  for  Peter; 
Cometh  the  dolorous  cry,  cometh  that  weird  iteration 
Of  "Peter"  and  "Peter"  for  aye,  of  "Peter"  and  "Peter"  forever! 
This  is  the  legend  of  old,  told  in  the  tumtitty  metre 
Which  the  great  poets  prefer,  being  less  labor  than  rhyming 
(My  first  attempt  at  the  same,  my  last  attempt,  too,  I  reckon!); 
Nor  have  I  further  to  say,  for  the  sad  story  is  ended. 


183 


SISTER'S  CAKE 


I  'd  not  complain  of  Sister  Jane,  for  she  was  good  and  kind, 
Combining  with  rare  comeliness  distinctive  gifts  of  mind; 
Nay,  I  '11  admit  it  were  most  fit  that,  worn  by  social  cares, 
She  'd  crave  a  change  from  parlor  life  to  that  below  the  stairs, 
And  that,  eschewing  needlework  and  music,  she  should  take 
Herself  to  the  substantial  art  of  manufacturing  cake. 

At  breakfast,  then,  it  would  befall  that  Sister  Jane  would  say: 

" Mother,  if  you  have  got  the  things,  I  '11  make  some  cake  to-day!" 

Poor  mother  'd  cast  a  timid  glance  at  father,  like  as  not — 

For  father  hinted  sister's  cooking  cost  a  frightful  lot — 

But  neither  she  nor  he  presumed  to  signify  dissent, 

Accepting  it.  for  gospel  truth  that  what  she  wanted  went! 

No  matter  what  the  rest  of  'em  might  chance  to  have  in  hand, 

The  whole  machinery  of  the  house  came  to  a  sudden  stand; 

The  pots  were  hustled  off  the  stove,  the  fire  built  up  anew, 

With  every  damper  set  just  so  to  heat  the  oven  through; 

The  kitchen-table  was  relieved  of  everything,  to  make 

That  ample  space  which  Jane  required  when  she  compounded  cake. 

And,  oh!  the  bustling  here  and  there,  the  flying  to  and  fro; 
The  click  of  forks  that  whipped  the  eggs  to  lather  white  as  snow — 
And  what  a  wealth  of  sugar  melted  swiftly  out  of  sight — 
And  butter?     Mother  said  such  waste  would  ruin  father,  quite! 
But  Sister  Jane  preserved  a  mien  no  pleading  could  confound 
As  she  utilized  the  raisins  and  the  citron  by  the  pound. 

Oh,  hours  of  chaos,  tumult,  heat,  vexatious  din,  and  whirl! 

Of  deep  humiliation  for  the  sullen  hired-girl; 

Of  grief  for  mother,  hating  to  see  things  wasted  so, 

And  of  fortune  for  that  little  boy  who  pined  to  taste  that  dough! 

It  looked  so  sweet  and  yellow — sure,  to  taste  it  were  no  sin — 

But,  oh!   how  sister  scolded  if  he  stuck  his  finger  in! 

The  chances  were  as  ten  to  one,  before  the  job  was  through, 
That  sister  'd  think  of  something  else  she  'd  great  deal  rather  do! 


184  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

So,  then,  she  'd  softly  steal  away,  as  Arabs  in  the  night, 
Leaving  the  girl  and  ma  to  finish  up  as  best  they  might; 
These  tactics  (artful  Sister  Jane)  enabled  her  to  take 
Or  shift  the  credit  or  the  blame  of  that  too-treacherous  cake! 

And  yet,  unhappy  is  the  man  who  has  no  Sister  Jane — 
For  he  who  has  no  sister  seems  to  me  to  live  in  vain. 
I  never  had  a  sister — maybe  that  is  why  to-day 
I  'm  wizened  and  dyspeptic,  instead  of  blithe  and  gay; 
A  boy  who  's  only  forty  should  be  full  of  romp  and  mirth, 
But  /  (because  I  'm  sisterless)  am  the  oldest  man  on  earth! 

Had  I  a  little  sister — oh,  how  happy  I  should  be! 

I  'd  never  let  her  cast  her  eyes  on  any  chap  but  me; 

I  'd  love  her  and  I  'd  cherish  her  for  better  and  for  worse — 

I  'd  buy  her  gowns  and  bonnets,  and  sing  her  praise  in  verse; 

And — yes,  what  's  more  and  vastly  more — I  tell  you  what  I  'd  do; 

I  'd  let  her  make  her  wondrous  cake,  and  I  would  eat  it,  too! 

I  have  a  high  opinion  of  the  sisters,  as  you  see — 

Another  fellow's  sister  is  so  very  dear  to  me! 

I  love  to  work  anear  her  when  she  's  making  over  frocks, 

When  she  patches  little  trousers  or  darns  prosaic  socks; 

But  I  draw  the  line  at  one  thing — yes,  I  don  my  hat  and  take 

A  three  hours'  walk  when  she  is  moved  to  try  her  hand  at  cake! 


ABU  MIDJAN 

"When  Father  Time  swings  round  his  scythe, 
Intomb  me  'neath  the  bounteous  vine, 

So  that  its  juices,  red  and  blithe, 

May  cheer  these  thirsty  bones  of  mine. 

"Elsewise  with  tears  and  bated  breath 

Should  I  survey  the  life  to  be. 
But  oh!     How  should  I  hail  the  death 

That  brings  that  vinous  grace  to  me!'' 


ED  185 


So  sung  the  dauntless  Saracen, 

Whereat  the  Prophet-Chief  ordains 

That,  curst  of  Allah,  loathed  of  men, 
The  faithless  one  shall  die  in  chains. 

But  one  vile  Christian  slave  that  lay 
A  prisoner  near  that  prisoner  saith: 

"God  willing,  I  will  plant  some  day 
A  vine  where  liest  thou  in  death." 

Lo,  over  Abu  Midjan's  grave 

With  purpling  fruit  a  vine-tree  grows; 
Where  rots  the  martyred  Christian  slave 

Allah,  and  only  Allah,  knows! 


ED 

ED  was  a  man  that  played  for  keeps,  'nd  when  he  tuk  the  notion. 
You  cudn't  stop  him  any  more  'n  a  dam  'ud  stop  the  ocean; 
For  when  he  tackled  to  a  thing  'nd  sot  his  mind  plum  to  it, 
You  bet  yer  boots  he  done  that  thing  though  it  broke  the  bank  to 

do  it! 

So  all  us  boys  uz  knowed  him  best  allowed  he  wuz  n't  jokin' 
WThen  on  a  Sunday  he  remarked  uz  how  he  'd  gin  up  smokin'. 

Now  this  remark,  that  Ed  let  fall,  fell,  ez  I  say,  on  Sunday — 

Which  is  the  reason  we  wuz  shocked  to  see  him  sail  in  Monday 

A-puffin'  at  a  snipe  that  sizzled  like  a  Chinese  cracker 

An'  smelt  fur  all  the  world  like  rags  instead  uv  like  terbacker; 

Recoverin'  from  our  first  surprise,  us  fellows  fell  to  pokin' 

A  heap  uv  fun  at  "  folks  uz  said  how  they  had  gin  up  smokin'." 

But  Ed — sez  he:  "I  found  my  work  cud  not  be  done  without  it — 

Jes'  try  the  scheme  yourselves,  my  friends,  ef  any  uv  you  doubt  it! 

It 's  hard,  I  know,  upon  one's  health,  but  there  's  a  certain  beauty 

In  makin'  sackerfices  to  the  stern  demands  uv  duty! 

So,  wholly  in  a  sperrit  uv  denial  'nd  concession, 

I  mortify  the  flesh  'nd  smoke  for  the  sake  uv  my  perfession!" 


186  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 


JENNIE 

SOME  men  affect  a  liking 

For  the  prim  in  face  and  mind, 
And  some  prefer  the  striking 

And  the  loud  in  womankind; 
Wee  Madge  is  wooed  of  many, 

And  buxom  Kate,  as  well, 
And  Jennie — charming  Jennie — 

Ah,  Jennie  doesn't  tell! 

What  eyes  so  bright  as  Daisy's, 

And  who  as  Maud  so  fair? 
Who  does  not  sing  the  praises 

Of  Lucy's  golden  hair? 
There  's  Sophie — she  is  witty, 

A  very  sprite  is  Nell, 
And  Susie's,  oh,  so  pretty — 

But  Jennie  doesn't  tell! 

And  now  for  my  confession: 

Of  all  the  virtues  rare, 
I  argue  that  discretion 

Doth  most  beseem  the  fair. 
And  though  I  hear  the  many 

Extol  each  other  belle, 
I — I  pronounce  for  Jennie, 

For  Jennie  doesn't  tell! 


<   CONTENTMENT 

HAPPY  the  man  that,  when  his  day  is  done, 
Lies  down  to  sleep  with  nothing  of  regret — 

The  battle  he  has  fought  may  not  be  won — 
The  fame  he  sought  be  just  as  fleeting  yet; 


"GUESS"  187 

Folding  at  last  his  hands  upon  his  breast, 

Happy  is  he,  if  hoary  and  forespent, 
He  sinks  into  the  last,  eternal  rest, 

Breathing  these  only  words:  "I  am  content." 

But  happier  he,  that,  while  his  blood  is  warm, 

Sees  hopes  and  friendships  dead  about  him  lie- 
Bares  his  brave  breast  to  envy's  bitter  storm, 

Nor  shuns  the  poison  barbs  of  calumny; 
And  'mid  it  all,  stands  sturdy  and  elate, 

Girt  only  in  the  armor  God  hath  meant 
For  him  who  'neath  the  buffetings  of  fate 

Can  say  to  God  and  man:  "I  am  content." 


"GUESS" 

THERE  is  a  certain  Yankee  phrase 

I  always  have  revered, 
Yet,  somehow,  in  these  modern  days, 

It 's  almost  disappeared; 
It  was  the  usage  years  ago, 

But  nowadays  it 's  got 
To  be  regarded  coarse  and  low 

To  answer:  "I  guess  not!" 

The  height  of  fashion  called  the  pink 

Affects  a  British  craze — 
Prefers  "I  fancy"    or  "I  think" 

To  that  time-honored  phrase; 
But  here's  a  Yankee,  if  you  please, 

That  brands  the  fashion  rot, 
And  to  all  heresies  like  these 

He  answers,  "I — guess  not!" — 

When  Chaucer,  Wycliff,  and  the  rest 
Express  their  meaning  thus, 

I  guess,  if  not  the  very  best, 
It 's  good  enough  for  us! 


188  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Why!   shall  the  idioms  of  our  speech 
Be  banished  and  forgot 

For  this  vain  trash  which  moderns  teach? 
Well,  no,  sir;   I  guess  not! 

There  's  meaning  in  that  homely  phrase 

No  other  words  express — 
No  substitute  therefor  conveys 

Such  unobtrusive  stress. 
True  Anglo-Saxon  speech,  it  goes 

Directly  to  the  spot, 
And  he  who  hears  it  always  knows 

The  worth  of  "I— guess— not!" 


NEW-YEAR'S  EVE 

GOOD  old  days — dear  old  days 

When  my  heart  beat  high  and  bold — 
When  the  things  of  earth  seemed  full  of  life, 

And  the  future  a  haze  of  gold! 
Oh,  merry  was  I  that  winter  night, 

And  gleeful  our  little  one's  din, 
And  tender  the  grace  of  my  darling's  face 

As  we  watched  the  new  year  in. 
But  a  voice — a  spectre's,  that  mocked  at  love — 

Came  out  of  the  yonder  hall; 
"Tick-tock,  tick-tock!"    't  was  the  solemn  clock 

That  ruefully  croaked  to  all. 
Yet  what  knew  we  of  the  griefs  to  be 

In  the  year  we  longed  to  greet? 
Love — love  was  the  theme  of  the  sweet,  sweet  dream 

I  fancied  might  never  fleet! 
But  the  spectre  stood  in  that  yonder  gloom, 

And  these  were  the  words  it  spake, 
"Tick-tock,  tick-tock" — and  they  seemed  to  mock 

A  heart  about  to  break. 


THE    BROKEN   RING  189 

'T  is  new-year's  eve,  and  again  I  watch 

In  the  old  familiar  place, 
And  I  'm  thinking  again  of  that  old  time  when 

I  looked  on  a  dear  one's  face. 
Never  a  little  one  hugs  my  knee 

And  I  hear  no  gleeful  shout — 
I  am  sitting  alone  by  the  old  hearthstone, 

Watching  the  old  year  out. 
But  I  welcome  the  voice  in  yonder  gloom 

That  solemnly  calls  to  me: 
"Tick-tock,  tick-tock!"  —for  so  the  clock 

Tells  of  a  life  to  be; 
"Tick-tock,  tick-tock!"  — 't  is  so  the  clock 

Tells  of  eternity. 


THE  BROKEN  RING 

To  the  willows  of  the  brookside 
The  mill  wheel  sings  to-day — 
Sings  and  weeps, 
As  the  brooklet  creeps 
Wondering  on  its  way; 
And  here  is  the  ring  she  gave  me 
With  love's  sweet  promise  then — 
It  hath  burst  apart 
Like  the  trusting  heart 
That  may  never  be  soothed  again! 

Oh,  I  would  be  a  minstrel 

To  wander  far  and  wide, 
Weaving  in  song  the  merciless  wrong 

Done  by  a  perjured  bride! 
Or  I  would  be  a  soldier, 

To  seek  in  the  bloody  fray 
What  gifts  of  fate  can  compensate 

For  the  pangs  I  suffer  to-day! 
Yet  may  this  aching  bosom, 

By  bitter  sorrow  crushed, 


190  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

Be  still  and  cold 
In  the  churchyard  mould 
Ere  thy  sweet  voice  be  hushed; 
So  sing,  sing  on  forever, 

0  wheel  of  the  brookside  mill, 
For  you  mind  me  again 

Of  the  old  time  when 

1  felt  love's  gracious  thrill. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  TAYLOR  PUP 

Now  lithe  and  listen,  gentles  all, 
Now  lithe  ye  all  and  hark 

Unto  a  ballad  I  shall  sing 
About  Buena  Park. 

Of  all  the  wonders  happening  there 
The  strangest  hap  befell 

Upon  a  famous  Aprile  morn, 
As  I  you  now  shall  tell. 

It  is  about  the  Taylor  pup 
And  of  his  mistress  eke 

And  of  the  prankish  time  they  had 
That  I  am  fain  to  speak. 

FITTE  THE   FIRST 

The  pup  was  of  as  noble  mien 
As  e'er  you  gazed  upon; 

They  called  his  mother  Lady 
And  his  father  was  a  Don. 

And  both  his  mother  and  his  sire 
Were  of  the  race  Bernard — 

The  family  famed  in  histories 
And  hymned  of  every  bard. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  TAYLOR  PUP          191 

His  form  was  of  exuberant  mould, 

Long,  slim,  and  loose  of  joints; 
There  never  yet  was  pointer-dog 

So  full  as  he  of  points. 

His  hair  was  like  to  yellow  fleece, 

His  eyes  were  black  and  kind, 
And  like  a  nodding,  gilded  plume 

His  tail  stuck  up  behind. 

His  bark  was  very,  very  fierce, 

And  fierce  his  appetite, 
Yet  was  it  only  things  to  eat 

That  he  was  prone  to  bite. 

But  in  that  one  particular 

He  was  so  passing  true 
That  never  did  he  quit  a  meal 

Until  he  had  got  through. 

Potatoes,  biscuits,  mush,  or  hash, 

Joint,  chop,  or  chicken  limb — 
So  long  as  it  was  edible, 

'T  was  all  the  same  to  him! 

And  frequently  when  Hunger's  pangs 

Assailed  that  callow  pup, 
He  masticated  boots  and  gloves 

Or  chewed  a  door-mat  up. 

So  was  he  much  beholden  of 

The  folk  that  him  did  keep; 
They  loved  him  when  he  was  awake 

And  better  still  asleep. 

FITTE  THE  SECOND 

Now  once  his  master,  lingering  o'er 

His  breakfast  coffee-cup, 
Observed  unto  his  doting  spouse: 

"You  ought  to  wash  the  pup!" 


192  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

"That  shall  I  do  this  very  day/' 
His  doting  spouse  replied; 

"You  will  not  know  the  pretty  thing 
When  he  is  washed  and  dried. 

"But  tell  me,  dear,  before  you  go 

Unto  your  daily  work, 
Shall  I  use  Ivory  soap  on  him, 

Or  Colgate,  Pears'  or  Kirk?" 

"Odzooks,  it  matters  not  a  whit — 
They  all  are  good  to  use! 

Take  Pearline,  if  it  pleases  you — 
Sapolio,  if  you  choose.1 

"Take  any  soap,  but  take  the  pup 

And  also  water  take, 
And  mix  the  three  discreetly  up 

Till  they  a  lather  make. 

"Then  mixing  these  constituent  parts, 
Let  Nature  take  her  way," 

With  which  advice  that  sapient  sir 
Had  nothing  more  to  say. 

Then  fared  he  to  his  daily  toil 
All  in  the  Board  of  Trade, 

While  Mistress  Taylor  for  that  bath 
Due  preparation  made. 

FITTE  THE   THIRD 

She  whistled  gayly  to  the  pup 
And  called  him  by  his  name, 

And  presently  the  guileless  thing 
All  unsuspecting  came. 

But  when  she  shut  the  bath-room  door. 

And  caught  him  as  catch-can, 
And  hove  him  in  that  odious  tub, 

His  sorrows  then  began. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  TAYLOR  PUP          193 

How  did  that  callow,  yallow  thing 

Regret  that  Aprile  morn — 
Alas!   how  bitterly  he  rued 

The  day  that  he  was  born! 

Twice  and  again,  but  all  in  vain, 

He  lifted  up  his  wail; 
His  voice  was  all  the  pup  could  lift, 

For  thereby  hangs  this  tale. 

'T  was  by  that  tail  she  held  him  down, 

And  presently  she  spread 
The  creamy  lather  on  his  back, 

His  stomach,  and  his  head. 

His  ears  hung  down  in  sorry  wise, 

His  eyes  were,  oh!   so  sad — 
He  looked  as  though  he  just  had  lost 

The  only  friend  he  had. 

And  higher  yet  the  water  rose, 

The  lather  still  increased, 
And  sadder  still  the  countenance 

Of  that  poor  martyred  beast! 

Yet  all  the  time  his  mistress  spoke 

Such  artful  words  of  cheer 
As  "Oh,  how  nice!"    and  "Oh,  how  clean!*'" 

And  "There  's  a  patient  dear!" 

At  last  the  trial  had  an  end, 

At  last  the  pup  was  free; 
She  threw  aside  the  bath-room  door — 

"Now  get  you  gone!"    quoth  she. 

FITTE    THE    FOURTH 

Then  from  that  tub  and  from  that  room 

He  gat  with  vast  ado; 
At  every  hop  he  gave  a  shake, 

And — how  the  water  flew! 


194  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

He  paddled  down  the  winding  stairs 

And  to  the  parlor  hied, 
Dispensing  pools  of  foamy  suds 

And  slop  on  every  side. 

Upon  the  carpet  then  he  rolled 
And  brushed  against  the  wall, 

And,  horror!   whisked  his  lathery  sides 
On  overcoat  and  shawl. 

Attracted  by  the  dreadful  din, 
His  mistress  came  below — 

Who,  who  can  speak  her  wonderment — 
Who,  who  can  paint  her  woe! 

Great  smears  of  soap  were  here  and  there— 

Her  startled  vision  met 
With  blobs  of  lather  everywhere, 

And  everything  was  wet! 

Then  Mrs.  Taylor  gave  a  shriek 

Like  one  about  to  die: 
"Get  out — get  out,  and  don't  you  dare 

Come  in  till  you  are  dry!" 

With  that  she  opened  wide  the  door 
And  waved  the  critter  through; 

Out  in  the  circumambient  air 
With  grateful  yelps  he  flew. 

FITTE  THE   FIFTH 

He  whisked  into  the  dusty  street 

And  to  the  Waller  lot, 
Where  bonnie  Annie  Evans  played 

With  charming  Sissy  Knott. 

And  with  those  pretty  little  dears 
He  mixed  himself  all  up — 

Oh,  fie  upon  such  boisterous  play— 
Fie,  fie,  you  naughty  pup! 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  TAYLOR  PUP          195 

Woe,  woe  on  Annie's  India  mull, 

And  Sissy's  blue  percale! 
One  got  that  pup's  belathered  flanks, 

And  one  his  soapy  tail! 

Forth  to  the  rescue  of  those  maids 

Rushed  gallant  Willie  Clow; 
His  panties  they  were  white  and  clean — 

Where  are  those  panties  now? 

Where  is  the  nicely  laundered  shirt 

That  Kendall  Evans  wore, 
And  Robbie  James's  tricot  coat 

All  buttoned  up  before? 

The  leaven,  which,  as  we  are  told, 

Leavens  a  monstrous  lump, 
Hath  far  less  reaching  qualities 

Than  a  wet  pup  on  the  jump. 

This  way  and  that  he  swung  and  swayed, 

He  gambolled  far  and  near, 
And  everywhere  he  thrust  himself 

He  left  a  soapy  smear. 

FITTE   THE   SIXTH 

That  noon  a  dozen  little  dears 

Were  spanked  and  put  to  bed 
With  naught  to  stay  their  appetites 

But  cheerless  crusts  of  bread. 

That  noon  a  dozen  hired  girls 

Washed  out  each  gown  and  shirt 
Which  that  exuberant  Taylor  pup 

Had  frescoed  o'er  with  dirt. 

That  whole  day  long  the  Aprile  sun 

Smiled  sweetly  from  above 
On  clotheslines  flaunting  to  the  breeze 

The  emblems  mothers  love. 


196  WESTERN   AND   OTHER   VERSE 

That  whole  day  long  the  Taylor  pup 
This  way  and  that  did  hie 

Upon  his  mad,  erratic  course, 
Intent  on  getting  dry. 

That  night  when  Mr.  Taylor  came 
His  vesper  meal  to  eat, 

He  uttered  things  my  pious  pen 
Would  liefer  not  repeat. 

Yet  still  that  noble  Taylor  pup 
Survives  to  romp  and  bark 

And  stumble  over  folks  and  things 
In  fair  Buena  Park. 

Good  sooth,  I  wot  he  should  be  called 

Buena's  favorite  son 
Who  's  sired  of  such  a  noble  sire 

And  dammed  by  every  one! 


AFTER  READING  TROLLOPE'S  HISTORY  OF 
FLORENCE 

MY  books  are  on  their  shelves  again 
And  clouds  lie  low  with  mist  and  rain. 
Afar  the  Arno  murmurs  low 
The  tale  of  fields  of  melting  snow. 
List  to  the  bells  of  times  agone 
The  while  I  wait  me  for  the  dawn. 

Beneath  great  Giotto's  Campanile 

The  gray  ghosts  throng;    their  whispers  steal 

From  poets'  bosoms  long  since  dust; 

They  ask  me  now  to  go.     I  trust 

Their  fleeter  footsteps  where  again 

They  come  at  night  and  live  as  men. 

The  rain  falls  on  Ghiberti's  gates; 
The  big  drops  hang  on  purple  dates; 


AJTER   READING   TROLLOPE*S  HISTORY   OF   FLORENCE       197 

And  yet  beneath  the  ilex-shades — 
Dear  trysting-place  for  boys  and  maids — 
There  comes  a  form  from  days  of  old, 
With  Beatrice's  hair  of  gold. 

The  breath  of  lands  or  lilied  streams 
Floats  through  the  fabric  of  my  dreams; 
And  yonder  from  the  hills  of  song, 
Where  psalmists  brood  and  prophets  throng, 
The  lone,  majestic  Dante  leads 
His  love  across  the  blooming  meads. 

Along  the  almond  walks  I  tread 
And  greet  the  figures  of  the  dead. 
Mirandula  walks  here  with  him 
Who  lived  with  gods  and  seraphim; 
Yet  where  Colonna's  fair  feet  go 
There  passes  Michael  Angelo, 

In  Rome  or  Florence,  still  with  her 
Stands  lone  and  grand  her  worshipper. 
In  Leonardo's  brain  there  move 
Christ  and  the  children  of  His  love; 
And  Raphael  is  touching  now, 
For  the  last  time,  an  angel's  brow. 

Angelico  is  praying  yet 
Where  lives  no  pang  of  man's  regret, 
And,  mixing  tears  and  prayers  within 
His  palette's  wealth,  absolved  from  sin, 
He  dips  his  brush  in  hues  divine; 
San  Marco's  angel  faces  shine. 

Within  Lorenzo's  garden  green, 
Where  olives  hide  their  boughs  between, 
The  lovers,  as  they  read  betimes 
Their  love  within  Petrarca's  lines, 
Stand  near  the  marbles  found  at  Rome, 
Lost  shades  that  search  in  vain  for  home. 


198  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

They  pace  the  paths  along  the  stream, 

Dark  Vallombrosa  in  their  dream. 

They  sing,  amidst  the  rain-drenched  pines, 

Of  Tuscan  gold  that  ruddier  shines 

Behind  a  saint's  auroral  face 

That  shows  e'en  yet  the  master's  trace. 

But  lo,  within  the  walls  of  gray, 

Ere  yet  there  falls  a  glint  of  day, 

And  far  without,  from  hill  to  vale, 

Where  honey-hearted  nightingale 

Or  meads  of  pale  anemones 

Make  sweet  the  coming  morning  breeze — 

I  hear  a  voice,  of  prophet  tone, 
A  voice  of  doom,  like  his  alone 
That  once  in  Gadara  was  heard; 
The  old  walls  trembled — lo,  the  bird 
Has  ceased  to  sing,  and  yonder  waits 
Lorenzo  at  his  palace  gates. 

Some  Romola  in  passing  by 
Turns  toward  the  ruler,  and  his  sigh 
Wanders  amidst  the  myrtle  bowers 
Or  o'er  the  city's  mantled  towers, 
For  she  is  Florence!     "Wilt  thou  hear 
San  Marco's  prophet?     Doom  is  near." 

"Her  liberties,"  he  cries,  "restore! 
This  much  for  Florence — yea,  and  more 
To  men  and  God!"    The  days  are  gone; 
And  in  an  hour  of  perfect  dawn 
I  stand  beneath  the  cypress  trees 
That  shiver  still  with  words  like  these. 


"THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD"  199 


"THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD" 

JEST  as  atween  the  awk'ard  lines  a  hand  we  love  has  penn'd 

Appears  a  meanin'  hid  from  other  eyes, 
So,  in  your  simple,  homespun  art,  old  honest  Yankee  friend, 

A  power  o'  tearful,  sweet  seggestion  lies. 
We  see  it  all — the  pictur'  that  our  mem'ries  hold  so  dear — 

The  homestead  in  New  England  far  away, 
An'  the  vision  is  so  nat'ral-like  we  almost  seem  to  hear 

The  voices  that  were  heshed  but  yesterday. 

Ah,  who  'd  ha'  thought  the  music  of  that  distant  childhood  time 

Would  sleep  through  all  the  changeful,  bitter  years 
To  waken  into  melodies  like  Chris'mas  bells  a-chime 

An*  to  claim  the  ready  tribute  of  our  tears! 
Why,  the  robins  in  the  maples  an'  the  blackbirds  round  the  pond, 

The  crickets  an'  the  locusts  in  the  leaves, 
The  brook  that  chased  the  trout  adown  the  hillside  just  beyond, 

An*  the  swallers  in  their  nests  beneath  the  eaves — 
They  all  come  troopin'  back  with  you,  dear  Uncle  Josh,  to-day, 

An'  they  seem  to  sing  with  all  the  joyous  zest 
Of  the  days  when  we  were  Yankee  boys  an'  Yankee  girls  at  play, 

With  nary  thought  of  "livin'  way  out  West"! 

God  bless  ye,  Denman  Thomps'n,  for  the  good  y'  do  our  hearts 

With  this  music  an'  these  memories  o'  youth — 
God  bless  ye  for  the  faculty  that  tops  all  human  arts, 

The  good  ol'  Yankee  faculty  of  Truth! 


THE   CONVALESCENT  GRIPSTER 

THE  gods  let  slip  that  fiendish  grip 
Upon  me  last  week  Sunday — 

No  fiercer  storm  than  racked  my  form 
E'er  swept  the  Bay  of  Fundy; 


200  WESTERN   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

But  now,  good-by 
To  drugs,  say  I — 

Good-by  to  gnawing  sorrow; 
I  am  up  to-day, 
And,  whoop,  hooray! 

I  'm  going  out  to-morrow! 

What  aches  and  pain  in  bones  and  brain 

I  had  I  need  not  mention; 
It  seemed  to  me  such  pangs  must  be 

Old  Satan's  own  invention; 
Albeit  I 
Was  sure  I  'd  die, 

The  doctor  reassured  me — 
And,  true  enough, 
With  his  vile  stuff, 

He  ultimately  cured  me. 

As  there  I  lay  in  bed  all  day, 

How  fair  outside  looked  to  me! 
A  smile  so  mild  old  Nature  smiled 

It  seemed  to  warm  clean  through  me. 
In  chastened  mood 
The  scene  I  viewed, 

Inventing,  sadly  solus, 
Fantastic  rhymes 
Between  the  times 

I  had  to  take  a  bolus. 

Of  quinine  slugs  and  other  drugs 

I  guess  I  took  a  million — 
Such  drugs  as  serve  to  set  each  nerve 

To  dancing  a  cotillon; 
The  doctors  say 
The  only  way 

To  rout  the  grip  instanter 
Is  to  pour  in 
All  kinds  of  sin — 

Similibus  curantur! 


THE   SLEEPING   CHILD  201 

'T  was  hard;   and  yet  I  '11  soon  forget 

Those  ills  and  cures  distressing; 
One's  future  lies  'neath  gorgeous  skies 

When  one  is  convalescing! 
So  now,  good-by 
To  drugs  say  I — 

Good-by,  thou  phantom  Sorrow! 
I  am  up  to-day, 
And,  whoop,  hooray! 

I  'm  going  out  to-morrow. 


THE  SLEEPING  CHILD 

MY  baby  slept — how  calm  his  rest, 
As  o'er  his  handsome  face  a  smile 
Like  that  of  angel  flitted,  while 

He  lay  so  still  upon  my  breast! 

My  baby  slept — his  baby  head 

Lay  all  unkiss'd  'neath  pall  and  shroud: 
I  did  not  weep  or  cry  aloud — 

I  only  wished  I,  too,  were  dead! 

My  baby  sleeps — a  tiny  mound, 
All  covered  by  the  little  flowers, 
Woos  me  in  all  my  waking  hours, 

Down  in  the  quiet  bury  ing-ground. 

And  when  I  sleep  I  seem  to  be 

With  baby  in  another  land — 

I  take  his  little  baby  hand — 
He  smiles  and  sings  sweet  songs  to  me. 

Sleep  on,  O  baby,  while  I  keep 
My  vigils  till  this  day  be  passed! 
Then  shall  I,  too,  lie  down  at  last, 

And  with  my  baby  darling  sleep. 


202  WESTERN    AND    OTHER    VERSE 


THE  TWO  COFFINS 

IN  yonder  old  cathedral 

Two  lovely  coffins  lie; 
In  one,  the  head  of  the  state  lies  dead, 

And  a  singer  sleeps  hard  by. 

Once  had  that  King  great  power 

And  proudly  ruled  the  land — 
His  crown  e'en  now  is  on  his  brow 

And  his  sword  is  in  his  hand. 

How  sweetly  sleeps  the  singer 

With  calmly  folded  eyes, 
And  on  the  breast  of  the  bard  at  rest 

The  harp  that  he  sounded  lies. 

The  castle  walls  are  falling 

And  war  distracts  the  land, 
But  the  sword  leaps  not  from  that  mildewed  spot 

There  in  that  dead  king's  hand. 

But  with  every  grace  of  nature 

There  seems  to  float  along — 
To  cheer  again  the  hearts  of  men — 

The  singer's  deathless  song. 


CLARE  MARKET 

IN  the  market  of  Clare,  so  cheery  the  glare 

Of  the  shops  and  the  booths  of  the  tradespeople  there; 

That  I  take  a  delight  on  a  Saturday  night 

In  walking  that  way  and  in  viewing  the  sight. 

For  it 's  here  that  one  sees  all  the  objects  that  please — 

New  patterns  in  silk  and  old  patterns  in  cheese, 


CLARE   MARKET  203 

For  the  girls  pretty  toys,  rude  alarums  for  boys, 
And  baubles  galore  while  discretion  enjoys — 
But  here  I  forbear,  for  I  really  despair 
Of  naming  the  wealth  of  the  market  of  Clare. 

A  rich  man  comes  down  from  the  elegant  town 
And  looks  at  it  all  with  an  ominous  frown; 
He  seems  to  despise  the  grandiloquent  cries 
Of  the  vender  proclaiming  his  puddings  and  pies; 
And  sniffing  he  goes  through  the  lanes  that  disclose 
Much  cause  for  disgust  to  his  sensitive  nose; 
And  free  of  the  crowd,  he  admits  he  is  proud 
That  elsewhere  in  London  this  thing  's  not  allowed 
He  has  seen  nothing  there  but  filth  everywhere, 
And  he  's  glad  to  get  out  of  the  market  of  Clare. 

But  the  child  that  has  come  from  the  gloom  of  the  slum 

Is  charmed  by  the  magic  of  dazzle  and  hum; 

He  feasts  his  big  eyes  on  the  cakes  and  the  pies, 

And  they  seem  to  grow  green  and  protrude  with  surprise 

At  the  goodies  they  vend  and  the  toys  without  end — 

And  it  's  oh!   if  he  had  but  a  penny  to  spend! 

But  alas,  he  must  gaze  in  a  hopeless  amaze 

At  treasures  that  glitter  and  torches  that  blaze — 

What  sense  of  despair  in  this  world  can  compare 

With  that  of  the  waif  in  the  market  of  Clare? 

So,  on  Saturday  night,  when  my  custom  invites 

A  stroll  in  old  London  for  curious  sights, 

I  am  likely  to  stray  by  a  devious  way 

Where  goodies  are  spread  in  a  motley  array, 

The  things  which  some  eyes  would  appear  to  despise 

Impress  me  as  pathos  in  homely  disguise, 

And  my  battered  waif-friend  shall  have  pennies  tospen' 

So  long  as  I  've  got  'em  (or  chums  that  will  lend) ; 

And  the  urchin  shall  share  in  my  joy  and  declare 

That  there  's  beauty  and  good  in  the  market  of  Clare 


204-  WESTERN    AND    OTHER    VERSE 


A  DREAM  OF  SPRINGTIME 

I JM  weary  of  this  weather  and  I  hanker  for  the  ways 

Which  people  read  of  in  the  psalms  and  preachers  paraphrase— 

The  grassy  fields,  the  leafy  woods,  the  banks  where  I  can  lie 

And  listen  to  the  music  of  the  brook  that  flutters  by, 

Or,  by  the  pond  out  yonder,  hear  the  redwing  blackbird's  call 

Where  he  makes  believe  he  has  a  nest,  but  has  n't  one  at  all; 

And  by  my  side  should  be  a  friend — a  trusty,  genial  friend, 

With  plenteous  store  of  tales  galore  and  natural  leaf  to  lend ; 

Oh,  how  I  pine  and  hanker  for  the  gracious  boon  of  spring — 

For  then  I  'm  going  a-fishing  with  John  Lyle  King! 

How  like  to  pigmies  will  appear  creation,  as  we  float 

Upon  the  bosom  of  the  tide  in  a  three-by-thirteen  boat — 

Forgotten  all  vexations  and  all  vanities  shall  be, 

As  we  cast  our  cares  to  windward  and  our  anchor  to  the  lee; 

Anon  the  minnow-bucket  will  emit  batrachian  sobs, 

And  the  devil's  darning-needles  shall  come  wooing  of  our  bobs; 

The  sun  shall  kiss  our  noses  and  the  breezes  toss  our  hair 

(This  latter  metaphoric — we  've  no  fimbrise  to  spare!); 

And  I — transported  by  the  bliss — shan't  do  a  plaguey  thing 

But  cut  the  bait  and  string  the  fish  for  John  Lyle  King! 

Or,  if  I  angle,  it  will  be  for  bullheads  and  the  like, 

While  he  shall  fish  for  gamey  bass,  for  pickerel,  and  for  pike; 

I  really  do  not  care  a  rap  for  all  the  fish  that  swim — 

But  it 's  worth  the  wealth  of  Indies  just  to  be  along  with  him 

In  grassy  fields,  in  leafy  woods,  beside  the  water-brooks, 

And  hear  him  tell  of  things  he  's  seen  or  read  of  in  his  books — 

To  hear  the  sweet  philosophy  that  trickles  in  and  out 

The  while  he  is  discoursing  of  the  things  we  talk  about; 

A  fountain-head  refreshing — a  clear,  perennial  spring 

Is  the  genial  conversation  of  John  Lyle  King! 

Should  varying  winds  or  shifting  tides  redound  to  our  despite — 
In  other  words,  should  we  return  all  bootless  home  at  night, 
I  'd  back  him  up  in  anything  he  had  a  mind  to  say 
Of  mighty  bass  he  'd  left  behind  or  lost  upon  the  way; 


A   DREAM    OF   SPRINGTIME  205 

I  'd  nod  assent  to  every  yarn  involving  piscine  game — 
I  'd  cross  my  heart  and  make  my  affidavit  to  the  same; 
For  what  is  friendship  but  a  scheme  to  help  a  fellow  out — 
And  what  a  paltry  fish  or  two  to  make  such  bones  about! 
Nay,  Sentiment  a  mantle  of  sweet  charity  would  fling 
O'er  perjuries  committed  for  John  Lyle  King. 

At  night,  when  as  the  camp-fire  cast  a  ruddy,  genial  flame, 
He  'd  bring  his  tuneful  fiddle  out  and  play  upon  the  same; 
No  diabolic  engine  this — no  instrument  of  sin — 
No  relative  at  all  to  that  lewd  toy,  the  violin! 
But  a  godly  hoosier  fiddle — a  quaint  archaic  thing 
Full  of  all  the  proper  melodies  our  grandmas  used  to  sing; 
With;"Bonnie  Boon," and  "Nellie  Gray,"  and  "Sitting  on  the  Stile/' 
"The  Heart  Bowed  Down,"  the  "White  Cockade,"  and  "Charm- 

ing  Annie  Lisle" 

Our  hearts  would  echo  and  the  sombre  empyrean  ring 
Beneath  the  wizard  sorcery  of  John  Lyle  King. 

The  subsequent  proceedings  should  interest  me  no  more — 

Wrapped  in  a  woolen  blanket  should  I  calmly  dream  and  snore; 

The  finny  game  that  swims  by  day  is  my  supreme  delight — 

And  not  the  scaly  game  that  flies  in  darkness  of  the  night! 

Let  those  who  are  so  minded  pursue  this  latter  game 

But  not  repine  if  they  should  lose  a  boodle  in  the  same; 

For  an  example  to  you  all  one  paragon  should  serve — 

He  towers  a  very  monument  to  valor  and  to  nerve; 

No  bob-tail  flush,  no  nine-spot  high,  no  measly  pair  can  wring 

A  groan  of  desperation  from  John  Lyle  King! 

A  truce  to  badinage — I  hope  far  distant  is  the  day 

When  from  these  scenes  terrestrial  our  friend  shall  pass  away! 

We  like  to  hear  his  cheery  voice  uplifted  in  the  land, 

To  see  his  calm,  benignant  face,  to  grasp  his  honest  hand; 

We  like  him  for  his  learning,  his  sincerity,  his  truth, 

His  gallantry  to  woman  and  his  kindliness  to  youth, 

For  the  lenience  of  his  nature,  for  the  vigor  of  his  mind, 

For  the  fulness  of  that  charity  he  bears  to  all  mankind — 

That 's  why  we  folks  who  know  him  best  so  reverently  cling 

(And  that  is  why  I  pen  these  lines)  to  John  Lyle  King. 


206  WESTERN    AND    OTHER    VERSE 

And  now  adieu,  a  fond  adieu  to  thee,  O  muse  of  rhyme — 
I  do  remand  thee  to  the  shades  until  that  happier  time 
When  fields  are  green,  and  posies  gay  are  budding  everywhere, 
And  there  's  a  smell  of  clover  bloom  upon  the  vernal  air; 
When  by  the  pond  out  yonder  the  redwing  blackbird  calls, 
And  distant  hills  are  wed  to  Spring  in  veils  of  water-falls; 
When  from  his  aqueous  element  the  famished  pickerel  springs 
Two  hundred  feet  into  the  air  for  butterflies  and  things — 
Then  come  again,  O  gracious  muse,  and  teach  me  how  to  sing 
The  glory  of  a  fishing  cruise  with  John  Lyle  King! 


HOW  SALTY  WIN  OUT 

USED  to  think  that  luck  wuz  luck  and  nuthin'  else  but  luck — 
It  made  no  diff  rence  how  or  when  or  where  or  why  it  struck; 
But  sev'ral  years  ago  I  changt  my  mind,  an'  now  proclaim 
That  luck  's  a  kind  uv  science — same  as  any  other  game; 
It  happened  out  in  Denver  in  the  spring  uv  '80  when 
Salty  teched  a  humpback  an'  win  out  ten. 

Salty  wuz  a  printer  in  the  good  ol'  Tribune  days, 

An',  natural-like,  he  fell  into  the  good  ol'  Tribune  ways; 

So,  every  Sunday  evenin'  he  would  sit  into  the  game 

Which  in  this  crowd  uv  thoroughbreds  I  think  I  need  not  name; 

An'  there  he  'd  sit  until  he  rose,  an',  when  he  rose,  he  wore 

Invariably  less  wealth  about  his  person  than  before. 

But  once  there  came  a  powerful  change;   one  sollum  Sunday  night 

Occurred  the  tidal  wave  that  put  ol'  Salty  out  o'  sight. 

He  win  on  deuce  an'  ace  an'  Jack — he  win  on  king  an'  queen — 

Clif  Bell  allowed  the  like  uv  how  he  win  wuz  never  seen. 

An'  how  he  done  it  wuz  revealed  to  all  us  fellers  when 

He  said  he  teched  a  humpback  to  win  out  ten. 

There  must  be  somethin'  in  it,  for  he  never  win  afore, 
Au'  when  he  told   the   crowd   about  the   humpback,   ho\v    they 
swore! 


BOCCACCIO  207 

For  every  sport  allows  it  is  a  losin'  game  to  luck 
Agin  the  science  uv  a  man  who  's  teched  a  hump  f'r  luck; 
And  there  is  no  denyin'  luck  wuz  nowhere  in  it  when 
Salty  teched  a  humpback  an'  win  out  ten. 

I  've  had  queer  dreams  an'  seen  queer  things,  an'  allus  tried  to 

do 

The  thing  that  luck  apparently  intended  f'r  me  to; 
Cats,  funerils,  cripples,  beggers  have  I  treated  with  regard, 
An'  charity  subscriptions  have  hit  me  powerful  hard; 
But  what 's  the  use  uv  talkin'  ?    I  say,  an'  say  again : 
You  've  got  to  tech  a  humpback  to  win  out  ten! 

So,  though  I  used  to  think  that  luck  wuz  lucky,  I  '11  allow 
That  luck,  for  luck,  agin  a  hump  ain't  nowhere  in  it  now! 
An'  though  I  can't  explain  the  whys  an'  wherefores,  I  maintain 
There  must  be  somethin'  in  it  when  the  tip  's  so  straight  an'  plain; 
For  I  wuz  there  an'  seen  it,  an'  got  full  with  Salty  when 
Salty  teched  a  humpback  an'  win  out  ten! 


BOCCACCIO 

LOVE  AFFAIRS   OF   A   BIBLIOMANIAC 

ONE  day  upon  a  topmost  shelf 

I  found  a  precious  prize  indeed, 
Which  father  used  to  read  himself, 

But  did  not  want  us  boys  to  read; 
A  brown  old  book  of  certain  age 

(As  type  and  binding  seemed  to  show), 
While  on  the  spotted  title-page 

Appeared  the  name  "Boccaccio." 

I  'd  never  heard  that  name  before, 

But  in  due  season  it  became 
To*  him  who  fondly  brooded  o'er 
Those  pages  a  belovM  name! 


208  WESTERN    AND    OTHER    VERSE 

Adown  the  centuries  I  walked 

Mid  pastoral  scenes  and  royal  show; 

With  seigneurs  and  their  dames  I  talked — 
The  crony  of  Boccaccio! 

Those  courtly  knights  and  sprightly  maids, 

Who  really  seemed  disposed  to  shine 
In  gallantries  and  escapades, 

Anon  became  great  friends  of  mine. 
Yet  was  there  sentiment  with  fun, 

And  oftentimes  my  tears  would  flow 
At  some  quaint  tale  of  valor  done, 

As  told  by  my  Boccaccio. 

In  boyish  dreams  I  saw  again 

Bucolic  belles  and  dames  of  court, 
The  princely  youths  and  monkish  men 

Arrayed  for  sacrifice  or  sport. 
Again  I  heard  the  nightingale 

Sing  as  she  sang  those  years  ago 
In  his  embowered  Italian  vale 

To  my  revered  Boccaccio. 

And  still  I  love  that  brown  old  book 

I  found  upon  the  topmost  shelf— 
I  love  it  so  I  let  none  look 

Upon  the  treasure  but  myself! 
And  yet  I  have  a  strapping  boy 

Who  (I  have  every  cause  to  know) 
Would  to  its  full  extent  enjoy 

The  friendship  of  Boccaccio! 

But  boys  are,  oh!   so  different  now 

From  what  they  were  when  I  was  one! 
I  fear  my  boy  would  not  know  how 

To  take  that  old  raconteur's  fun! 
In  your  companionship,  O  friend, 

I  think  it  wise  alone  to  go 
Plucking  the  gracious  fruits  that  bend 

Where'er  you  lead,  Boccaccio. 


MARCUS   VARRO  209 

So  rest  you  there  upon  the  shelf, 

Clad  in  your  garb  of  faded  brown; 
Perhaps,  sometime,  my  boy  himself 

Shall  find  you  out  and  take  you  down. 
Then  may  he  feel  the  joy  once  more 

That  thrilled  me,  filled  me  years  ago 
When  reverently  I  brooded  o'er 

The  glories  of  Boccaccio! 


MARCUS  VARRO 

MARCUS  VARRO  went  up  and  down 

The  places  where  old  books  were  sold; 
He  ransacked  all  the  shops  in  town 

For  pictures  new  and  pictures  old. 
He  gave  the  folk  of  earth  no  peace; 

Snooping  around  by  day  and  night, 
He  plied  the  trade  in  Rome  and  Greece 

Of  an  insatiate  Grangerite. 

" Pictures!"  was  evermore  his  cry — 

"  Pictures  of  old  or  recent  date," 
And  pictures  only  would  he  buy 

Wherewith  to  "extra-illustrate." 
Full  many  a  tome  of  ancient  type 

And  many  a  manuscript  he  took, 
For  nary  purpose  but  to  swipe 

Their  pictures  for  some  other  book. 

While  Marcus  Varro  plied  his  fad 

There  was  not  in  the  shops  of  Greece 
A  book  or  pamphlet  to  be  had 

That  was  not  minus  frontispiece. 
Nor  did  he  hesitate  to  ply 

His  baleful  practices  at  home; 
It  was  not  possible  to  buy 

A  perfect  book  in  all  of  Rome! 


210  WESTERN    AND    OTHER    VERSE 

What  must  the  other  folks  have  done — 
Who,  glancing  o'er  the  books  they  bought, 

Came  soon  and  suddenly  upon 
The  vandalism  Varro  wrought! 

How  must  their  cheeks  have  flamed  with  red- 
How  did  their  hearts  with  choler  beat! 

We  can  imagine  what  they  said — 
We  can  imagine,  not  repeat  I 

Where  are  the  books  that  Varro  made — 

The  pride  of  dilettante  Rome — 
With  divers  portraitures  inlaid 

Swiped  from  so  many  another  tome? 
The  worms  devoured  them  long  ago — 

O  wretched  worms!   ye  should  have  fed 
Not  on  the  books  "extended"  so, 

But  on  old  Varro's  flesh  instead! 

Alas,  that  Marcus  Varro  lives 

And  is  a  potent  factor  yet! 
Alas,  that  still  his  practice  gives 

Good  men  occasion  for  regret! 
To  yonder  bookstall,  pri'thee,  go 

And  by  the  "missing"  prints  and  plates 
And  frontispieces  you  shall  know 

He  lives,  and  "extra-illustrates"! 


MY  GARDEN 

MY  garden  aboundeth  in  pleasant  nooks 

And  fragrance  is  over  it  all; 
For  sweet  is  the  smell  of  my  old,  old  books 

In  their  places  against  the  wall. 

Here  is  a  folio  that 's  grim  with  age 
And  yellow  and  green  with  mould; 

There  's  the  breath  of  the  sea  on  every  page 
And  the  hint  of  a  stanch  ship's  hold. 


MY   GARDEN  211 

And  here  is  a  treasure  from  France  la  belle 

Exhaleth  a  faint  perfume 
Of  wedded  lily  and  asphodel 

In  a  garden  of  song  abloom. 

And  this  wee  little  book  of  Puritan  mien 

And  rude,  conspicuous  print 
Hath  the  Yankee  flavor  of  wintergreen, 

Or,  may  be,  of  peppermint. 

In  Walton  the  brooks  a-babbling  tell 

Where  the  cheery  daisy  grows, 
And  where  in  meadow  or  woodland  dwell 

The  buttercup  and  the  rose. 

But  best  beloved  of  books,  I  ween, 

Are  those  which  one  perceives 
Are  hallowed  by  ashes  dropped  between 

The  yellow,  well-thumbed  leaves. 

For  it 's  here  a  laugh  and  it 's  there  a  tear, 

Till  the  treasured  book  is  read; 
And  the  ashes  betwixt  the  pages  here 

Tell  us  of  one  long  dead. 

But  the  gracious  presence  reappears 

As  we  read  the  book  again, 
And  the  fragrance  of  precious,  distant  years 

Filleth  the  hearts  of  men. 

Come,  pluck  with  me  in  my  garden  nooks 

The  posies  that  bloom  for  all; 
Oh,  sweet  is  the  smell  of  my  old,  old  books 

In  their  places  against  the  wall! 


212  WESTERN    AND    OTHER    VERSE 


ONE  DAY  I  GOT  A  MISSIVE 

ONE  day  I  got  a  missive 

Writ  in  a  dainty  hand, 
Which  made  my  manly  bosom 

With  vanity  expand. 
'T  was  from  a  "young  admirer" 

Who  asked  me  would  I  mind 
Sending  her  "favorite  poem" 

"In  autograph,  and  signed." 

She  craved  the  boon  so  sweetly 

That  I  had  been  a  churl 
Had  I  repulsed  the  homage 

Of  this  gentle,  timid  girl; 
With  bright  illuminations 

I  decked  the  manuscript, 
And  in  my  choicest  paints  and  inks 

My  brush  and  pen  I  dipt. 

Indeed  it  had  been  tedious 

But  that  a  flattered  smile 
Played  on  my  rugged  features 

And  eased  my  toil  the  while. 
I  was  assured  my  poem 

Would  fill  her  with  delight— 
I  fancied  she  was  pretty — 

I  knew  that  she  was  bright! 

And  for  a  spell  thereafter 

That  unknown  damsel's  face 
With  its  worshipful  expression 

Pursued  me  every  place; 
Meseemed  to  hear  her  whisper: 

"O,  thank  you,  gifted  sir, 
For  the  overwhelming  honor 

You  so  graciously  confer!" 


ONE   BAY   I   GOT   A   MISSIVE  213 

But  a  catalogue  from  Benjamin's 

Disproves  what  things  meseemed — 
Dispels  with  savage  certainty 

The  flattering  dreams  I  dreamed; 
For  that  poor  "favorite  poem," 

Done  and  signed  in  autograph, 
Is  listed  in  " Cheap  Items" 

At  a  dollar-and-a-half. 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD 


WITH  TRUMPET  AND  DRUM 

WITH  big  tin  trumpet  and  little  red  drum, 
Marching  like  soldiers,  the  children  come! 

It 's  this  way  and  that  way  they  circle  and  file — 

My!   but  that  music  of  theirs  is  fine! 
This  way  and  that  way,  and  after  a  while 

They  march  straight  into  this  heart  of  mine! 
A  sturdy  old  heart,  but  it  has  to  succumb 
To  the  blare  of  that  trumpet  and  beat  of  that  drum! 

Come  on,  little  people,  from  cot  and  from  hall — 
This  heart  it  hath  welcome  and  room  for  you  all! 
It  will  sing  you  its  songs  and  warm  you  with  love, 

As  your  dear  little  arms  with  my  arms  intertwine; 
It  will  rock  you  away  to  the  dreamland  above — 
Oh,  a  jolly  old  heart  is  this  old  heart  of  mine, 
And  jollier  still  is  it  bound  to  become 
When  you  blow  that  big  trumpet  and  beat  that  red  drum! 

So  come;   though  I  see  not  his  dear  little  face 
And  hear  not  his  voice  in  this  jubilant  place, 
I  know  he  were  happy  to  bid  me  enshrine 

His  memory  deep  in  my  heart  with  your  play — 
Ah  me!   but  a  love  that  is  sweeter  than  mine 

Holdeth  my  boy  in  its  keeping  to-day! 
And  my  heart  it  is  lonely — so,  little  folk,  come, 
March  in  and  make  merry  with  trumpet  and  drum! 


214 


THE   SUGAR-PLUM   TREE  215 


THE  SUGAR-PLUM  TREE 

HAVE  you  ever  heard  of  the  Sugar-Plum  Tree? 

'T  is  a  marvel  of  great  renown! 
It  blooms  on  the  shore  of  the  Lollipop  sea 

In  the  garden  of  Shut-Eye  Town; 
The  fruit  that  it  bears  is  so  wondrously  sweet 

(As  those  who  have  tasted  it  say) 
That  good  little  children  have  only  to  eat 

Of  that  fruit  to  be  happy  next  day. 

When  you  've  got  to  the  tree,  you  would  have  a  hard  time 

To  capture  the  fruit  which  I  sing; 
The  tree  is  so  tall  that  no  person  could  climb 

To  the  boughs  where  the  sugar-plums  swing! 
But  up  in  that  tree  sits  a  chocolate  cat, 

And  a  gingerbread  dog  prowls  below — 
And  this  is  the  way  you  contrive  to  get  at 

Those  sugar-plums  tempting  you  so: 

You  say  but  the  word  to  that  gingerbread  dog 

And  he  barks  with  such  terrible  zest 
That  the  chocolate  cat  is  at  once  all  agog, 

As  her  swelling  proportions  attest. 
And  the  chocolate  cat  goes  cavorting  around 

From  this  leafy  limb  unto  that, 
And  the  sugar-plums  tumble,  of  course,  to  the  ground — 

Hurrah  for  that  chocolate  cat! 

There  are  marshmallows,  gumdrops,  and  peppermint  canes, 

With  stripings  of  scarlet  or  gold, 
And  you  carry  away  of  the  treasure  that  rains 

As  much  as  your  apron  can  hold! 
So  come,  little  child,  cuddle  closer  to  me 

In  your  dainty  white  nightcap  and  gown, 
And  I  '11  rock  you  away  to  that  Sugar-Plum  Tree 

In  the  garden  of  Shut-Eye  Town. 


216  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 


KRINKEN 

KRINKEN  was  a  little  child, — 
It  was  summer  when  he  smiled. 
Oft  the  hoary  sea  and  grim 
Stretched  its  white  arms  out  to  him, 
Calling,  "Sun-child,  come  to  me; 
Let  me  warm  my  heart  with  thee!" 
But  the  child  heard  not  the  sea. 

Krinken  on  the  beach  one  day 
Saw  a  maiden  Nis  at  play; 
Fair,  and  very  fair,  was  she, 
Just  a  little  child  was  he. 
"Krinken,"  said  the  maiden  Nis, 
"Let  me  have  a  little  kiss, — 
Just  a  kiss,  and  go  with  me 
To  the  summer-lands  that  be 
Down  within  the  silver  sea." 

Krinken  was  a  little  child, 
By  the  maiden  Nis  beguiled; 
Down  into  the  calling  sea 
With  the  maiden  Nis  went  he. 

But  the  sea  calls  out  no  more; 
It  is  winter  on  the  shore, — 
Winter  where  that  little  child 
Made  sweet  summer  when  he  smiled: 
Though  't  is  summer  on  the  sea 
Where  with  maiden  Nis  went  he, — 
Summer,  summer  evermore, — 
It  is  winter  on  the  shore, 
Winter,  winter  evermore. 

Of  the  summer  on  the  deep 
Come  sweet  visions  in  my  sleep; 
His  fair  face  lifts  from  the  sea, 
His  dear  voice  calls  out  to  me, — • 
These  my  dreams  of  summer  be. 


THE   NAUGHTY    DOLL  217 

Krinken  was  a  little  child, 
By  the  maiden  Nis  beguiled; 
Oft  the  hoary  sea  and  grim 
Reached  its  longing  arms  to  him, 

Crying,  " Sun-child,  come  to  me; 
Let  me  warm  my  heart  with  thee!" 
But  the  sea  calls  out  no  more; 
It  is  winter  on  the  shore, — 
Winter,  cold  and  dark  and  wild; 
Krinken  was  a  little  child, — 
It  was  summer  when  he  smiled; 
Down  he  went  into  the  sea, 
And  the  winter  bides  with  me. 
Just  a  little  child  was  he. 


THE  NAUGHTY  DOLL 

MY  dolly  is  a  dreadful  care, — 

Her  name  is  Miss  Amandy; 
I  dress  her  up  and  curl  her  hair, 

And  feed  her  taffy  candy. 
Yet  heedless  of  the  pleading  voice 

Of  her  devoted  mother, 
She  will  not  wed  her  mother's  choice, 

But  says  she  '11  wed  another. 

I  'd  have  her  wed  the  china  vase, — 

There  is  no  Dresden  rarer; 
You  might  go  searching  every  place 

And  never  find  a  fairer. 
He  is  a  gentle,  pinkish  youth, — 

Of  that  there  's  no  denying; 
Yet  when  I  speak  of  him,  forsooth, 

Amandy  falls  to  crying! 

She  loves  the  drum — that 's  very  plain- 
And  scorns  the  vase  so  clever; 


218  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 

And  weeping,  vows  she  will  remain 

A  spinster  doll  forever! 
The  protestations  of  the  drum 

I  am  convinced  are  hollow; 
When  once  distressing  times  should  come, 

How  soon  would  ruin  follow! 

Yet  all  in  vain  the  Dresden  boy 

From  yonder  mantel  woos  her; 
A  mania  for  that  vulgar  toy, 

The  noisy  drum,  imbues  her! 
In  vain  I  wheel  her  to  and  fro, 

And  reason  with  her  mildly, — 
Her  waxen  tears  in  torrents  flow, 

Her  sawdust  heart  beats  wildly. 

I  'm  sure  that  when  I  'm  big  and  tall, 

And  wear  long  trailing  dresses, 
I  sha'  n't  encourage  beaux  at  all 

Till  mamma  acquiesces; 
Our  choice  will  be  a  suitor  then 

As  pretty  as  this  vase  is, — 
Oh,  how  we  '11  hate  the  noisy  men 

With  whiskers  on  their  faces  I 


NIGHTFALL  IN  DORDRECHT 

THE  mill  goes  toiling  slowly  around 

With  steady  and  solemn  creak, 
And  my  little  one  hears  in  the  kindly  sound 

The  voice  of  the  old  mill  speak. 
While  round  and  round  those  big  white  wings 

Grimly  and  ghostlike  creep, 
My  little  one  hears  that  the  old  mill  sings: 

"Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleep!" 

The  sails  are  reefed  and  the  nets  are  drawn, 
And,  over  his  pot  of  beer, 


INTRY-MINTRY  219 

The  fisher,  against  the  morrow's  dawn, 

Lustily  maketh  cheer; 
He  mocks  at  the  winds  that  caper  along 

From  the  far-off  clamorous  deep, — 
But  we — we  love  their  lullaby  song 

Of  "Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleep!" 

Old  dog  Fritz  in  slumber  sound 

Groans  of  the  stony  mart — 
To-morrow  how  proudly  he  '11  trot  you  round, 

Hitched  to  our  new  milk-cart! 
And  you  shall  help  me  blanket  the  kine 

And  fold  the  gentle  sheep 
And  set  the  herring  a-soak  in  brine — 

But  now,  little  tulip,  sleep! 

A  Dream-One  comes  to  button  the  eyes 

That  wearily  droop  and  blink, 
While  the  old  mill  buffets  the  frowning  skies 

And  scolds  at  the  stars  that  wink; 
Over  your  face  the  misty  wings 

Of  that  beautiful  Dream-One  sweep, 
And  rocking  your  cradle  she  softly  sings: 

"Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleep!" 


INTRY-MINTRY 

WILLIE  and  Bess,  Georgie  and  May — 
Once,  as  these  children  were  hard  at  play, 
An  old  man,  hoary  and  tottering,  came 
And  watched  them  playing  their  pretty  game. 
He  seemed  to  wonder,  while  standing  there, 

What  the  meaning  thereof  could  be — 
Aha,  but  the  old  man  yearned  to  share 

Of  the  little  children's  innocent  glee 
As  they  circled  around  with  laugh  and  shout 
And  told  their  rime  at  counting  out: 

"  Intry-mintry,  cutrey-corn, 


220  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 

Apple-seed  and  apple- thorn; 
Wire,  brier,  limber,  lock, 
Twelve  geese  in  a  flock; 
Some  flew  east,  some  flew  west, 
Some  flew  over  the  cuckoo's  nest!" 

Willie  and  Bess,  Georgie  and  May — 
Ah,  the  mirth  of  that  summer-day! 
'T  was  Father  Time  who  had  come  to  share 
The  innocent  joy  of  those  children  there; 
He  learned  betimes  the  game  they  played 

And  into  their  sport  with  them  went  he — 
How  could  the  children  have  been  afraid, 

Since  little  they  recked  whom  he  might  be? 
They  laughed  to  hear  old  Father  Time 
Mumbling  that  curious  nonsense  rime 

Of  "  Intry-mintry,  cutrey-corn, 

Apple-seed  and  apple- thorn; 

Wire,  brier,  limber,  lock, 

Twelve  geese  in  a  flock; 

Some  flew  east,  some  flew  west, 

Some  flew  over  the  cuckoo's  nest!" 

Willie  and  Bess,  Georgie  and  May, 
And  joy  of  summer — where  are  they? 
The  grim  old  man  still  standeth  near 
Crooning  the  song  of  a  far-off  year; 
And  into  the  winter  I  come  alone, 

Cheered  by  that  mournful  requiem, 
Soothed  by  the  dolorous  monotone 

That  shall  count  me  off  as  it  counted  them — 
The  solemn  voice  of  old  Father  Time 
Chanting  the  homely  nursery  rime 

He  learned  of  the  children  a  summer  morn 
When,  with  "apple-seed  and  apple-thorn," 
Life  was  full  of  the  dulcet  cheer 
That  bringeth  the  grace  of  heaven  anear — 
The  sound  of  the  little  ones  hard  at  play — 
Willie  and  Bess,  Georgie  and  May. 


PITTYPAT  AND  TIPPYTOE  221 


PITTYPAT  AND  TIPPYTOE 

ALL  day  long  they  come  and  go — 
Pittypat  and  Tippy  toe; 

Footprints  up  and  down  the  hall, 

Playthings  scattered  on  the  floor, 
Finger-marks  along  the  wall, 

Telltale  smudges  on  the  door — 
By  these  presents  you  shall  know 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe. 

How  they  riot  at  their  play! 
And  a  dozen  times  a  day 

In  they  troop,  demanding  bread — 

Only  buttered  bread  will  do, 
And  that  butter  must  be  spread 

Inches  thick  with  sugar  too! 
And  I  never  can  say  "No, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe!" 

Sometimes  there  are  griefs  to  soothe, 
Sometimes  ruffled  brows  to  smooth; 
For  (I  much  regret  to  say) 

Tippytoe  and  Pittypat 
Sometimes  interrupt  their  play 

With  an  internecine  spat; 
Fie,  for  shame!   to  quarrel  so — 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe! 

Oh  the  thousand  worrying  things 
Every  day  recurrent  brings! 

Hands  to  scrub  and  hair  to  brush, 

Search  for  playthings  gone  amiss, 
Many  a  wee  complaint  to  hush, 

Many  a  little  bump  to  kiss; 
Life  seems  one  vain,  fleeting  show 
To  Pittypat  and  Tippytoe! 


222  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

And  when  day  is  at  an  end, 
There  are  little  duds  to  mend: 
Little  frocks  are  strangely  torn, 

Little  shoes  great  holes  reveal, 
Little  hose,  but  one  day  worn, 

Rudely  yawn  at  toe  and  heel! 
Who  but  you  could  work  such  woe, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe? 

But  when  comes  this  thought  to  me: 
"Some  there  are  that  childless  be," 
Stealing  to  their  little  beds, 

With  a  love  I  cannot  speak, 
Tenderly  I  stroke  their  heads — 
Fondly  kiss  each  velvet  cheek. 
God  help  those  who  do  not  know 
A  Pittypat  or  Tippytoe! 

On  the  floor  and  down  the  hall, 
Rudely  smutched  upon  the  wall, 
There  are  proofs  in  every  kind 

Of  the  havoc  they  have  wrought, 
And  upon  my  heart  you'd  find 

Just  such  trade-marks,  if  you  sought; 
Oh,  how  glad  I  am  't  is  so, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe! 


BALOW,  MY  BONNIE 

HUSH,  bonnie,  dinna  greit; 
Moder  will  rocke  her  sweete, — 

Balow,  my  boy! 
When  that  his  toile  ben  done, 
Daddie  will  come  anone, — 
Hush  thee,  my  lyttel  one; 

Balow,  my  boy  I 


THE   HAWTHORNE   CHILDREN  223 


Gin  thou  dost  sleepe,  perchaunce 
Fayries  will  come  to  daunce, — 

Balow,  my  boy! 
Oft  hath  thy  moder  seene 
Moonlight  and  mirkland  queene 
Daunce  on  thy  slumbering  een, — 

Balow,  my  boy! 

Then  droned  a  bomblebee 
Saftly  this  songe  to  thee: 

"Balow,  my  boy!" 
And  a  wee  heather  bell, 
Pluckt  from  a  fayry  dell, 
Chimed  thee  this  rune  hersell: 

"Balow,  my  boy!" 

Soe,  bonnie,  dinna  greit; 
Moder  doth  rocke  her  sweete, — 

Balow,  my  boy! 
Give  mee  thy  lyttel  hand, 
Moder  will  hold  it  and 
Lead  thee  to  balow  land, — 

Balow,  my  boy! 


THE  HAWTHORNE  CHILDREN 

THE  Hawthorne  children — seven  in  all — 
Are  famous  friends  of  mine, 

And  with  what  pleasure  I  recall 

How,  years  ago,  one  gloomy  fall, 
I  took  a  tedious  railway  line 

And  journeyed  by  slow  stages  down 

Unto  that  sleepy  seaport  town 
(Albeit  one  worth  seeing), 
Where  Hildegarde,  John,  Henry,  Fred, 


224  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

And  Beatrix  and  Gwendolen 
And  she  that  was  the  baby  then — 
These  famous  seven,  as  aforesaid, 
Lived,  moved,  and  had  their  being. 

The  Hawthorne  children  gave  me  such 

A  welcome  by  the  sea, 
That  the  eight  of  us  were  soon  in  touch, 
And  though  their  mother  marvelled  much, 

Happy  as  larks  were  we! 
Egad  I  was  a  boy  again 
With  Henry,  John,  and  Gwendolen! 

And,  oh!   the  funny  capers 
I  cut  with  Hildegarde  and  Fred! 
The  pranks  we  heedless  children  played, 
The  deafening,  awful  noise  we  made — 
'T  would  shock  my  family,  if  they  read 

About  it  in  the  papers! 

The  Hawthorne  children  all  were  smart; 

The  girls,  as  I  recall, 
Had  comprehended  every  art 
Appealing  to  the  head  and  heart, 

The  boys  were  gifted,  all; 
'T  was  Hildegarde  who  showed  me  how 
To  hitch  the  horse  and  milk  a  cow 

And  cook  the  best  of  suppers; 
With  Beatrix  upon  the  sands 
I  sprinted  daily,  and  was  beat, 
While  Henry  stumped  me  to  the  feat 
Of  walking  round  upon  my  hands 

Instead  of  on  my  "uppers." 


The  Hawthorne  children  liked  me  best 

Of  evenings,  after  tea; 
For  then,  by  general  request, 
I  spun  them  yarns  about  the  west — 

And  all  involving  Me! 


LITTLE   BLUE   PIGEON  225 

I  represented  how  I  'd  slain 

The  bison  on  the  gore-smeared  plain, 

And  divers  tales  of  wonder 
I  told  of  how  I  'd  fought  and  bled 
In  Injun  scrimmages  galore, 
Till  Mrs.  Hawthorne  quoth,  "No  more!" 
And  packed  her  darlings  off  to  bed 
To  dream  of  blood  and  thunder! 

They  must  have  changed  a  deal  since  thens 

The  misses  tall  and  fair 
And  those  three  lusty,  handsome  men, 
Would  they  be  girls  and  boys  again 

Were  I  to  happen  there, 
Down  in  that  spot  beside  the  sea 
Where  we  made  such  tumultuous  glee 

In  dull  autumnal  weather? 

Ah  me!   the  years  go  swiftly  by, 
And  yet  how  fondly  I  recall 
The  week  when  we  were  children  all — 
Dear  Hawthorne  children,  you  and  I — • 

Just  eight  of  us,  together! 


LITTLE  BLUE  PIGEON 

(JAPANESE  LULLABY) 

SLEEP,  little  pigeon,  and  fold  your  wings — - 
Little  blue  pigeon  with  velvet  eyes; 

Sleep  to  the  singing  of  mother-bird  swinging- 
Swinging  the  nest  where  her  little  one  lies. 

Away  out  yonder  I  see  a  star — 
Silvery  star  with  a  tinkling  song; 

To  the  soft  dew  falling  I  hear  it  calling — 
Calling  and  tinkling  the  night  along. 


226  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

In  through  the  window  a  moonbeam  comes — 
Little  gold  moonbeam  with  misty  wings; 

All  silently  creeping,  it  asks:     "Is  he  sleeping — 
Sleeping  and  dreaming  while  mother  sings  ?  " 

Up  from  the  sea  there  floats  the  sob 

Of  the  waves  that  are  breaking  upon  the  shore, 

As  though  they  were  groaning  in  anguish,  and  moaning— 
Bemoaning  the  ship  that  shall  come  no  more. 

But  sleep,  little  pigeon,  and  fold  your  wings — 
Little  blue  pigeon  with  mournful  eyes; 

Am  I  not  singing? — see,  I  am  swinging — 
Swinging  the  nest  where  my  darling  lies. 


THE  LYTTEL  BOY 

SOME  time  there  ben  a  lyttel  boy 

That  wolde  not  renne  and  play, 
And  helpless  like  that  little  tyke 

Ben  allwais  in  the  way. 
"Goe,  make  you  merrie  with  the  rest/5 

His  weary  moder  cried; 
But  with  a  frown  he  catcht  her  gown 

And  hong  untill  her  side. 

That  boy  did  love  his  moder  well, 

Which  spake  him  faire,  I  ween; 
He  loved  to  stand  and  hold  her  hand 

And  ken  her  with  his  een; 
His  cosset  bleated  in  the  croft, 

His  toys  unheeded  lay, — 
He  wolde  not  goe,  but,  tarrying  soe, 

Ben  allwais  in  the  way. 

Godde  loveth  children  and  doth  gird 
His  throne  with  soche  as  these, 


TEENY-WEENY  227 

And  he  doth  smile  in  plaisaunce  while 

They  cluster  at  his  knees; 
And  some  time,  when  he  looked  on  earth 

And  watched  the  bairns  at  play, 
He  kenned  with  joy  a  lyttel  boy 

Ben  allwais  in  the  way. 

And  then  a  moder  felt  her  heart 

How  that  it  ben  to-torne, 
She  kissed  eche  day  till  she  ben  gray 

The  shoon  he  use  to  worn; 
No  bairn  let  hold  untill  her  gown 

Nor  played  upon  the  floore, — 
Godde's  was  the  joy;   a  lyttel  boy 

Ben  in  the  way  no  more! 


TEENY-WEENY 

EVERY  evening,  after  tea, 
Teeny- Weeny  comes  to  me, 
And,  astride  my  willing  knee, 

Plies  his  lash  and  rides  away; 
Though  that  palfrey,  all  too  spare, 
Finds  his  burden  hard  to  bear, 
Teeny- Weeny  doesn  't  care; 

He  commands,  and  I  obey! 

First  it 's  trot,  and  gallop  then; 
Now  it 's  back  to  trot  again; 
Teeny- Weeny  likes  it  when 

He  is  riding  fierce  and  fast. 
Then  his  dark  eyes  brighter  grow 
And  his  cheeks  are  all  aglow: 
"More!"   he  cries,  and  never  "Whoa!" 

Till  the  horse  breaks  down  at  last. 

Oh,  the  strange  and  lovely  sights 
Teeny- Weeny  sees  of  nights, 


228  POEMS   OF  CHILDHOOD 

As  he  makes  those  famous  flights 
On  that  wondrous  horse  of  his! 
Oftentimes  before  he  knows, 
Wearylike  his  eyelids  close, 
And,  still  smiling,  off  he  goes 
Where  the  land  of  By-low  is. 

There  he  sees  the  folk  of  fay 
Hard  at  ring-a-rosie  play, 
And  he  hears  those  fairies  say: 

"Come,  let 's  chase  him  to  and  fro!" 
But,  with  a  defiant  shout, 
Teeny  puts  that  host  to  rout; 
Of  this  tale  I  make  no  doubt, 

Every  night  he  tells  it  so. 

So  I  feel  a  tender  pride 

In  my  boy  who  dares  to  ride 

That  fierce  horse  of  his  astride, 

Off  into  those  misty  lands; 
And  as  on  my  breast  he  lies, 
Dreaming  in  that  wondrous  wise, 
I  caress  his  folded  eyes, 

Pat  his  little  dimpled  hands. 

On  a  time  he  went  away, 
Just  a  little  while  to  stay, 
And  I  'm  not  ashamed  to  say 

I  was  very  lonely  then; 
Life  without  him  was  so  sad, 
You  can  fancy  I  was  glad 
And  made  merry  when  I  had 

Teeny- Weeny  back  again! 

So  of  evenings,  after  tea, 
When  he  toddles  up  to  me 
And  goes  tugging  at  my  knee, 

You  should  hear  his  palfrey  neigh! 


NELLIE  229 

You  should  see  him  prance  and  shy, 
When,  with  an  exulting  cry, 
Teeny- Weeny,  vaulting  high, 
Plies  his  lash  and  rides  away! 


NELLIE 

His  listening  soul  hears  no  echo  of  battle, 

No  psean  of  triumph  nor  welcome  of  fame; 
But  down  through  the  years  comes  a  little  one's  prattle, 

And  softly  he  murmurs  her  idolized  name. 
And  it  seems  as  if  now  at  his  heart  she  were  clinging 

As  she  clung  in  those  dear,  distant  years  to  his  knee; 
He  sees  her  fair  face,  and  he  hears  her  sweet  singing — 

And  Nellie  is  coming  from  over  the  sea. 

While  each  patriot's  hope  stays  the  fulness  of  sorrow, 

While  our  eyes  are  bedimmed  and  our  voices  are  low, 
He  dreams  of  the  daughter  who  comes  with  the  morrow 

Like  an  angel  come  back  from  the  dear  long  ago. 
Ah,  what  to  him  now  is  a  nation's  emotion, 

And  what  for  our  love  or  our  grief  careth  he  ? 
A  swift-speeding  ship  is  a-sail  on  the  ocean, 

And  Nellie  is  coming  from  over  the  sea! 

O  daughter — my  daughter!   when  Death  stands  before  me 

And  beckons  me  off  to  that  far  misty  shore, 
Let  me  see  your  loved  form  bending  tenderly  o'er  me, 

And  feel  your  dear  kiss  on  my  lips  as  of  yore. 
In  the  grace  of  your  love  all  my  anguish  abating, 

I  '11  bear  myself  bravely  and  proudly  as  he, 
And  know  the  sweet  peace  that  hallowed  his  waiting 

When  Nellie  was  coming  from  over  the  sea. 


230  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 


NORSE  LULLABY 

THE  sky  is  dark  and  the  hills  are  white 

As  the  storm-king  speeds  from  the  north  to-night; 
And  this  is  the  song  the  storm-king  sings, 
As  over  the  world  his  cloak  he  flings: 

"Sleep,  sleep,  little  one,  sleep"; 
He  rustles  his  wings  and  gruffly  sings: 

"Sleep,  little  one,  sleep." 

On  yonder  mountain-side  a  vine 
Clings  at  the  foot  of  a  mother  pine; 
The  tree  bends  over  the  trembling  thing, 
And  only  the  vine  can  hear  her  sing: 

"Sleep,  sleep,  little  one,  sleep — 
What  shall  you  fear  when  I  am  here  ? 

Sleep,  little  one,  sleep/' 

The  king  may  sing  in  his  bitter  flight, 
The  tree  may  croon  to  the  vine  to-night, 
But  the  little  snowflake  at  my  breast 
Liketh  the  song  I  sing  the  best — 

Sleep,  sleep,  little  one,  sleep; 
Weary  thou  art,  a-next  my  heart 

Sleep,  little  one,  sleep. 


GRANDMA'S  PRAYER 

I  PRAY  that,  risen  from  the  dead, 

I  may  in  glory  stand — 
A  crown,  perhaps,  upon  my  head, 

But  a  needle  in  my  hand. 

I  've  never  learned  to  sing  or  play, 
So  let  no  harp  be  mine; 

From  birth  unto  my  dying  day, 
Plain  sewing  's  been  my  line. 


SOME   TIME  231 


Therefore,  accustomed  to  the  end 
To  plying  useful  stitches, 

I  '11  be  content  if  asked  to  mend 
The  little  angels'  breeches.    ^ 


SOME  TIME 

LAST  night,  my  darling,  as  you  slept, 

I  thought  I  heard  you  sigh, 
And  to  your  little  crib  I  crept, 

And  watched  a  space  thereby; 
Then,  bending  down,  I  kissed  your  brow- 

For,  oh!   I  love  you  so — • 
You  are  too  young  to  know  it  now, 

But  some  time  you  shall  know. 

Some  time,  when,  in  a  darkened  place 

Where  others  come  to  weep, 
Your  eyes  shall  see  a  weary  face 

Calm  in  eternal  sleep; 
The  speechless  lips,  the  wrinkled  brow, 

The  patient  smile  may  show — 
You  are  too  young  to  know  it  now, 

But  some  time  you  shall  know. 

Look  backward,  then,  into  the  years, 

And  see  me  here  to-night — 
See,  O  my  darling!   how  my  tears 

Are  falling  as  I  write; 
And  feel  once  more  upon  your  brow 

The  kiss  of  long  ago — 
You  are  too  young  to  know  it  now, 

But  some  time  you  shall  know. 


232  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 


THE  FIRE-HANGBIRD'S  NEST 

As  I  am  sitting  in  the  sun  upon  the  porch  to-day, 

I  look  with  wonder  at  the  elm  that  stands  across  the  way; 

I  say  and  mean  "with  wonder,"  for  now  it  seems  to  me 

That  elm  is  not  as  tall  as  years  ago  it  used  to  be! 

The  old  fire-hangbird  's  built  her  nest  therein  for  many  springs — 

High  up  amid  the  sportive  winds  the  curious  cradle  swings, 

But  not  so  high  as  when  a  little  boy  I  did  my  best 

To  scale  that  elm  and  carry  off  the  old  fire-hangbird 's  nest! 

The  Hubbard  boys  had  tried  in  vain  to  reach  the  homely  prize 

That  dangled  from  that  upper  outer  twig  in  taunting  wise, 

And  once,  when  Deacon  Turner's  boy  had  almost  grasped  the 

limb, 

He  fell!   and  had  to  have  a  doctor  operate  on  him! 
Philetus  Baker  broke  his  leg  and  Orrin  Root  his  arm — 
But  what  of  that  ?     The  danger  gave  the  sport  a  special  charm ! 
The  Bixby  and  the  Cutler  boys,  the  Newtons  and  the  rest 
Ran  every  risk  to  carry  off  the  old  fire-hangbird's  nest! 

I  can  remember  that  I  used  to  knee  my  trousers  through, 
That  mother  used  to  wonder  how  my  legs  got  black  and  blue, 
And  how  she  used  to  talk  to  me  and  make  stern  threats  when 

she 

Discovered  that  my  hobby  was  the  nest  in  yonder  tree; 
How,  as  she  patched  my  trousers  or  greased  my  purple  legs, 
She  told  me  't  would  be  wicked  to  destroy  a  hangbird's  eggs, 
And  then  she  'd  call  on  father  and  on  gran' pa  to  attest 
That  they,  as  boys,  had  never  robbed  an  old  fire-hangbird's  nest! 

Yet  all  those  years  I  coveted  the  trophy  flaunting  there, 
While,  as  it  were  in  mockery  of  my  abject  despair, 
The  old  fire-hangbird  confidently  used  to  come  and  go, 
As  if  she  were  indifferent  to  the  bandit  horde  below! 
And  sometimes  clinging  to  her  nest  we  thought  we  heard  her  chide 
The  callow  brood  whose  cries  betrayed  the  fear  that  reigned  in 
side: 

"Hush,  little  dears!    all  profitless  shall  be  their  wicked  quest — 
I  knew  my  business  when  I  built  the  old  fire-hangbird's  nest!" 


BUTTERCUP,  POPPY,  FORGET-ME-NOT         233 

For  many,  very  many  years  that  mother-bird  has  come 
To  rear  her  pretty  little  brood  within  that  cosey  home. 
She  is  the  selfsame  bird  of  old — I  'm  certain  it  is  she — • 
Although  the  chances  are  that  she  has  quite  forgotten  me. 
Just  as  of  old  that  prudent,  crafty  bird  of  compound  name 
(And  in  parenthesis  I  '11  say  her  nest  is  still  the  same); 
Just  as  of  old  the  passion,  too,  that  fires  the  youthful  breast 
To  climb  unto  and  comprehend  the  old  fire-hangbird's  nest! 

I  like  to  see  my  old-time  friend  swing  in  that  ancient  tree, 
And,  if  the  elm  's  as  tall  and  sturdy  as  it  used  to  be, 
I  'm  sure  that  many  a  year  that  nest  shall  in  the  breezes  blow, 
For  boys  are  n't  what  they  used  to  be  a  forty  years  ago! 
The  elm  looks  shorter  than  it  did  when  brother  Rufe  and  I 
Beheld  with  envious  hearts  that  trophy  flaunted  from  on  high; 
He  writes  that  in  the  city  where  he  's  living  'way  out  West 
His  little  boys  have  never  seen  an  old  fire-hangbird's  nest! 

Poor  little  chaps!   how  lonesomelike  their  city  life  must  be — 
I  wish  they  'd  come  and  live  awhile  in  this  old  house  with  me ! 
They  'd  have  the  honest  friends  and  healthful  sports  I  used  to  know 
When  brother  Rufe  and  I  were  boys  a  forty  years  ago. 
So,  when  they  grew  from  romping  lads  to  busy,  useful  men, 
They  could  recall  with  proper  pride  their  country  life  again; 
And  of  those  recollections  of  their  youth  I  'm  sure  the  best 
Would  be  of  how  they  sought  in  vain  the  old  fire-hangbird's  nest! 


BUTTERCUP,  POPPY,  FORGET-ME-NOT 

BUTTERCUP,  Poppy,  Forget-me-not — 
These  three  bloomed  in  a  garden  spot; 
And  once,  all  merry  with  song  and  play, 
A  little  one  heard  three  voices  say: 

"Shine  and  shadow,  summer  and  spring, 
O  thou  child  with  the  tangled  hair 

And  laughing  eyes!   we  three  shall  bring 

Each  an  offering  passing  fair." 
The  little  one  did  not  understand, 
But  they  bent  and  kissed  the  dimpled  hand. 


234  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

Buttercup  gambolled  all  day  long, 
Sharing  the  little  one's  mirth  and  song; 
Then,  stealing  along  on  misty  gleams, 
Poppy  came  bearing  the  sweetest  dreams. 

Playing  and  dreaming — and  that  was  all 
Till  once  a  sleeper  would  not  awake; 

Kissing  the  little  face  under  the  pall, 

We  thought  of  the  words  the  third  flower  spake; 
And  we  found  betimes  in  a  hallowed  spot 
The  solace  and  peace  of  Forget-me-not. 

Buttercup  shareth  the  joy  of  day, 

Glinting  with  gold  the  hours  of  play; 

Bringeth  the  Poppy  sweet  repose, 

When  the  hands  would  fold  and  the  eyes  would  close; 

And  after  it  all — the  play  and  the  sleep 
Of  a  little  life — what  cometh  then  ? 

To  the  hearts  that  ache  and  the  eyes  that  weep 

A  new  flower  bringeth  God's  peace  again. 
Each  one  serveth  its  tender  lot — 
Buttercup,  Poppy,  Forget-me-not. 


WYNKEN,   BLYNKEN,   AND  NOD 

(DUTCH  LULLABY) 

WYNKEN,  Blynken,  and  Nod  one  night 

Sailed  off  in  a  wooden  shoe — 
Sailed  on  a  river  of  crystal  light, 

Into  a  sea  of  dew. 
"Where  are  you  going,  and  what  do  you  wish?" 

The  old  moon  asked  the  three. 
"We  have  come  to  fish  for  the  herring  fish 
That  live  in  this  beautiful  sea; 
.  Nets  of  silver  and  gold  have  we!" 
Said  Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 


WYNKEN,    BLYNKEN,    AND   NOD  235 

The  old  moon  laughed  and  sang  a  song, 

As  they  rocked  in  the  wooden  shoe, 
And  the  wind  that  sped  them  all  night  long 

Ruffled  the  waves  of  dew. 
The  little  stars  were  the  herring  fish 
That  lived  in  that  beautiful  sea — 
"Now  cast  your  nets  wherever  you  wish — 
Never  afeard  are  we"; 
So  cried  the  stars  to  the  fishermen  three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

,.,,         ,    r- 
All  night  long  their  nets  they  threw 

To  the  stars  in  the  twinkling  foam — 
Then  down  from  the  skies  came  the  wooden  shoe, 

Bringing  the  fishermen  home; 
'T  was  all  so  pretty  a  sail  it  seemed 

As  if  it  could  not  be, 

And  some  folks  thought  't  was  a  dream  they  'd  dreamed 
Of  sailing  that  beautiful  sea — 
But  I  shall  name  you  the  fishermen  three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

Wynken  and  Blynken  are  two  little  eyes, 

And  Nod  is  a  little  head, 
And  the  wooden  shoe  that  sailed  the  skies 

Is  a  wee  one's  trundle-bed. 
So  shut  your  eyes  while  mother  sings 

Of  wonderful  sights  that  be, 
And  you  shall  see  the  beautiful  things 
As  you  rock  in  the  misty  sea, 
Where  the  old  shoe  rocked  the  fishermen  three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 


236  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 

GOLD  AND  LOVE  FOR  DEARIE 
(CORNISH  LULLABY) 

OUT  on  the  mountain  over  the  town, 

All  night  long,  all  night  long, 
The  trolls  go  up  and  the  trolls  go  down, 

Bearing  their  packs  and  singing  a  song; 
And  this  is  the  song  the  hill-folk  croon, 
As  they  trudge  in  the  light  of  the  misty  moon- 
This  is  ever  their  dolorous  tune: 
"Gold,  gold!   ever  more  gold — 
Bright  red  gold  for  dearie!" 

Deep  in  the  hill  a  father  delves 
All  night  long,  all  night  long; 
None  but  the  peering,  furtive  elves 
Sees  his  toil  and  hears  his  song; 
Merrily  ever  the  cavern  rings 
As  merrily  ever  his  pick  he  swings, 
And  merrily  ever  this  song  he  sings: 
"Gold,  gold!   ever  more  gold — 
Bright  red  gold  for  dearie!'* 

Mother  is  rocking  thy  lowly  bed 

All  night  long,  all  night  long, 

Happy  to  smooth  thy  curly  head, 

To  hold  thy  hand  and  to  sing  her  song: 
'T  is  not  of  the  hill-folk  dwarfed  and  old, 
Nor  the  song  of  thy  father,  stanch  and  bold, 
And  the  burthen  it  beareth  is  not  of  gold: 
But  it 's  "Love,  love!   nothing  but  love — 
Mother's  love  for  dearie!" 


THE    PEACE    OF    CHRISTMAS-TIME  237 


THE  PEACE  OF  CHRISTMAS-TIME 

DEAREST,  how  hard  it  is  to  say 

That  all  is  for  the  best, 
Since,  sometimes,  in  a  grievous  way 

God's  will  is  manifest. 

See  with  what  hearty,  noisy  glee 

Our  little  ones  to-night 
Dance  round  and  round  our  Christmas  tree 

With  pretty  toys  bedight. 

Dearest,  one  voice  they  may  not  hear, 

One  face  they  may  not  see — 
Ah,  what  of  all  this  Christmas  cheer 

Cometh  to  you  and  me? 

Cometh  before  our  misty  eyes 

That  other  little  face, 
And  we  clasp,  in  tender,  reverent  wise, 

That  love  in  the  old  embrace. 


Dearest,  the  Christ-child  walks  to-night, 

Bringing  his  peace  to  men, 
And  he  bringeth  to  you  and  to  me  the  light 

Of  the  old,  old  years  again. 

Bringeth  the  peace  of  long  ago, 

When  a  wee  one  clasped  your  knee 

And  lisped  of  the  morrow — dear  one,  you  know 
And  here  come  back  is  he! 


Dearest,  't  is  sometimes  hard  to  say 

That  all  is  for  the  best, 
For,  often,  in  a  grievous  way 

God's  will  is  manifest. 


238  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

But  in  the  grace  of  this  holy  night 
That  bringeth  us  back  our  child, 

Let  us  see  that  the  ways  of  God  are  right, 
And  so  be  reconciled. 


TO  A  LITTLE  BROOK 

You  'RE  not  so  big  as  you  were  then, 

O  little  brook!— 

I  mean  those  hazy  summers  when 
We  boys  roamed,  full  of  awe,  beside 
Your  noisy,  foaming,  tumbling  tide, 
And  wondered  if  it  could  be  true 
That  there  were  bigger  brooks  than  you, 

O  mighty  brook,  O  peerless  brook! 

All  up  and  down  this  reedy  place 

Where  lives  the  brook, 
We  angled  for  the  furtive  dace; 
The  redwing-blackbird  did  his  best 
To  make  us  think  he  'd  built  his  nest 
Hard  by  the  stream,  when,  like  as  not, 
He  'd  hung  it  in  a  secret  spot 

Far  from  the  brook,  the  telltale  brook! 

And  often,  when  the  noontime  heat 

Parboiled  the  brook, 

We  'd  draw  our  boots  and  swing  our  feet 
Upon  the  waves  that,  in  their  play, 
Would  tag  us  last  and  scoot  away; 
And  mother  never  seemed  to  know 
What  burnt  our  legs  and  chapped  them  so — 

But  father  guessed  it  was  the  brook  I 

And  Fido — how  he  loved  to  swim 

The  cooling  brook, 
Whenever  we  'd  throw  sticks  for  him; 
And  how  we  boys  did  wish  that  we 


TO   A    LITTLE   BROOK  239 

Could  only  swim  as  good  as  he — 
Why,  Daniel  Webster  never  was 
Recipient  of  such  great  applause 
As  Fido,  battling  with  the  brook! 

But  once — O  most  unhappy  day 

For  you,  my  brook! — 
Came  Cousin  Sam  along  that  way; 
And,  having  lived  a  spell  out  West, 
Where  creeks  are  n't  counted  much  at  best, 
He  neither  waded,  swam,  nor  leapt, 
But,  with  superb  indifference,  slept 

Across  that  brook — our  mighty  brook! 

Why  do  you  scamper  on  your  way, 

You  little  brook, 

When  I  come  back  to  you  to-day  ? 
Is  it  because  you  flee  the  grass 
That  lunges  at  you  as  you  pass, 
As  if,  in  playful  mood,  it  would 
Tickle  the  truant  if  it  could, 

You  chuckling  brook — you  saucy  brook? 

Or  is  it  you  no  longer  know — 

You  fickle  brook — 
The  honest  friend  of  long  ago  ? 
The  years  that  kept  us  twain  apart 
Have  changed  my  face,  but  not  my  heart — 
Many  and  sore  those  years,  and  yet 
I  fancied  you  could  not  forget 

That  happy  time,  my  playmate  brook! 

Oh,  sing  again  in  artless  glee, 

My  little  brook, 

The  song  you  used  to  sing  for  me — 
The  song  that 's  lingered  in  my  ears 
So  soothingly  these  many  years; 
My  grief  shall  be  forgotten  when 
I  hear  your  tranquil  voice  again 

And  that  sweet  song,  dear  little  brook! 


240  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 


CROODLIN'   DOO 

Ho,  pretty  bee,  did  you  see  my  croodlin'  doo  ? 

Ho,  little  lamb,  is  she  jinkin'  on  the  lea? 

Ho,  bonnie  fai^,  bring  my  dearie  back  to  me — 
Got  a  lump  o'  sugar  an'  a  posie  for  you, 
Only  bring  me  back  my  wee,  wee  croodlin'  doo! 

Why  I  here  you  are,  my  little  croodlin'  doo! 

Looked  in  er  cradle,  but  did  n't  find  you  there — 
Looked  f'r  my  wee,  wee  croodlin'  doo  ever' where; 
Be'n  kind  lonesome  all  er  day  withouten  you — 
Where  you  be'n,  my  teeny,  wee,  wee  croodlin'  doo? 

Now  you  go  balow,  my  little  croodlin'  doo; 

Now  you  go  rockaby  ever  so  far, — 

Rockaby,  rockaby  up  to  the  star 
That 's  winkin'  an'  blinkin'  an'  singin'  to  you, 
As  you  go  balow,  my  wee,  wee  croodlin'  doo! 


LITTLE  MISTRESS  SANS-MERCI 

LITTLE  Mistress  Sans-Merci 
Fareth  world-wide,  fancy  free: 
Trotteth  cooing  to  and  fro, 

And  her  cooing  is  command — 
Never  ruled  there  yet,  I  trow, 
Mightier  despot  in  the  land. 
And  my  heart  it  lieth  where 
Mistress  Sans-Merci  doth  fare. 

Little  Mistress  Sans-Merci — 
She  hath  made  a  slave  of  me! 
"Go,"  she  biddeth,  and  I  go — 
"Come,"  and  I  am  fain  to  come 


LONG   AGO  241 

Never  mercy  doth  she  show, 

Be  she  wroth  or  frolicsome, 
Yet  am  I  content  to  be 
Slave  to  Mistress  Sans-Merci! 

Little  Mistress  Sans-Merci 
Hath  become  so  dear  to  me 
That  I  count  as  passing  sweet 

All  the  pain  her  moods  impart, 
And  I  bless  the  little  feet 

That  go  trampling  on  my  heart: 
Ah,  how  lonely  life  would  be 
But  for  little  Sans-Merci! 

Little  Mistress  Sans-Merci, 
Cuddle  close  this  night  to  me, 
And  the  heart,  which  all  day  long 

Ruthless  thou  hast  trod  upon, 
Shall  outpour  a  soothing  song 

For  its  best  beloved  one — 
All  its  tenderness  for  thee, 
Little  Mistress  Sans-Merci! 


LONG  AGO 

I  ONCE  knew  all  the  birds  that  came 

And  nested  in  our  orchard  trees, 
For  every  flower  I  had  a  name — 

My  friends  were  woodchucks,  toads,  and  bees; 
I  knew  where  thrived  in  yonder  glen 

What  plants  would  soothe  a  stone-bruised  toe — 
Oh,  I  was  very  learned  then, 

But  that  was  very  long  ago. 

I  knew  the  spot  upon  the  hill 

Where  checkerberries  could  be  found, 

I  knew  the  rushes  near  the  mill 

Where  pickerel  lay  that  weighed  a  pound! 


242  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

I  knew  the  wood — the  very  tree 

Where  lived  the  poaching,  saucy  crow, 

And  all  the  woods  and  crows  knew  me— 
But  that  was  very  long  ago. 

And  pining  for  the  joys  of  youth, 

I  tread  the  old  familiar  spot 
Only  to  learn  this  solemn  truth: 

I  have  forgotten,  am  forgot. 
Yet  here  's  this  youngster  at  my  knee 

Knows  all  the  things  I  used  to  know; 
To  think  I  once  was  wise  as  he! — 

But  that  was  very  long  ago. 

I  know  it 's  folly  to  complain 

Of  whatsoe'er  the  fates  decree, 
Yet,  were  not  wishes  all  in  vain, 

I  tell  you  what  my  wish  should  be: 
I  'd  wish  to  be  a  boy  again, 

Back  with  the  friends  I  used  to  know. 
For  I  was,  oh,  so  happy  then — 

But  that  was  very  long  ago! 


'  IN  THE  FIRELIGHT 

THE  fire  upon  the  hearth  is  low, 

And  there  is  stillness  everywhere, 
And,  like  wing'd  spirits,  here  and  there 

The  firelight  shadows  fluttering  go. 

And  as  the  shadows  round  me  creep, 
A  childish  treble  breaks  the  gloom, 
And  softly  from  a  further  room 

Comes:   "Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

And,  somehow,  with  that  little  pray'r 
And  that  sweet  treble  in  my  ears, 
My  thought  goes  back  to  distant  years, 

And  lingers  with  a  dear  one  there; 


COBBLER   AND   STORK  243 

And  as  I  hear  my  child's  amen, 

My  mother's  faith  comes  back  to  me — 
Crouched  at  her  side  I  seem  to  be, 

And  mother  holds  my  hands  again. 

Oh,  for  an  hour  in  that  dear  place — 

Oh,  for  the  peace  of  that  dear  time — 
Oh,  for  that  childish  trust  sublime — 

Oh,  for  a  glimpse  of  mother's  face! 

Yet,  as  the  shadows  round  me  creep, 
I  do  not  seem  to  be  alone — 
Sweet  magic  of  that  treble  tone 

And  "Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep!" 


COBBLER  AND  STORK 

COBBLER 

STORK,  I  am  justly  wroth, 

For  thou  hast  wronged  me  sore; 
The  ash  roof-tree  that  shelters  thee 

Shall  shelter  thee  no  more! 

STORK 

Full  fifty  years  I  Jve  dwelt 

Upon  this  honest  tree, 
And  long  ago  (as  people  know!) 

I  brought  thy  father  thee. 
What  hail  hath  chilled  thy  heart, 

That  thou  shouldst  bid  me  go? 
Speak  out,  I  pray — then  I  '11  away, 

Since  thou  commandest  so. 

COBBLER 

Thou  tellest  of  the  time 

When,  wheeling  from  the  west, 
This  hut  thou  sought'st  and  one  thou  brought'st 

Unto  a  mother's  breast. 


244  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

/  was  the  wretched  child 

Was  fetched  that  dismal  morn — 
JT  were  better  die  than  be  (as  I) 

To  life  of  misery  born! 
And  hadst  thou  borne  me  on 

Still  farther  up  the  town, 
A  king  I  'd  be  of  high  degree, 

And  wear  a  golden  crown! 
For  yonder  lives  the  prince 

Was  brought  that  selfsame  day: 
How  happy  he,  while — look  at  me! 

I  toil  my  life  away! 
And  see  my  little  boy — 

To  what  estate  he  's  born! 
Why,  when  I  die  no  hoard  leave  I 

But  poverty  and  scorn. 
And  thou  hast  done  it  all— 

I  might  have  been  a  king 
And  ruled  in  state,  but  for  thy  hate, 

Thou  base,  perfidious  thing! 

STORK 

Since,  cobbler,  thou  dost  speak 

Of  one  thou  lovest  well, 
Hear  of  that  king  what  grievous  thing 

This  very  morn  befell. 
Whilst  round  thy  homely  bench 

Thy  well-beloved  played, 
In  yonder  hall  beneath  a  pall 

A  little  one  was  laid; 
Thy  well-beloved's  face 

Was  rosy  with  delight, 
But  'neath  that  pall  in  yonder  hall 

The  little  face  is  white; 
Whilst  by  a  merry  voice 

Thy  soul  is  filled  with  cheer, 
Another  weeps  for  one  that  sleeps 

All  mute  and  cold  anear; 
One  father  hath  his  hope, 

And  one  is  childless  now; 


"LOLLYBY,  LOLLY,  LOLLYBY"  245 

He  wears  a  crown  and  rules  a  town — 

Only  a  cobbler  thou! 
Wouldst  thou  exchange  thy  lot 

At  price  of  such  a  woe  ? 
I  '11  nest  no  more  above  thy  door, 

But,  as  thou  bidst  me,  go. 

COBBLER 

Nay,  stork!   thou  shalt  remain — 

I  mean  not  what  I  said; 
Good  neighbors  we  must  always  be, 

So  make  thy  home  o'erhead. 
I  would  not  change  my  bench 

For  any  monarch's  throne, 
Nor  sacrifice  at  any  price 

My  darling  and  my  own! 
Stork!   on  my  roof-tree  bide, 

That,  seeing  thee  anear, 
I  '11  thankful  be  God  sent  by  thee 

Me  and  my  darling  here! 


"LOLLYBY,  LOLLY,  LOLLYBY" 

LAST  night,  whiles  that  the  curfew  bell  ben  ringing, 
I  heard  a  moder  to  her  dearie  singing 

"Lollyby,  lolly,  lollyby"; 

And  presently  that  chylde  did  cease  hys  weeping, 
And  on  his  moder's  breast  did  fall  a-sleeping 

To  "  lolly,  lolly,  lollyby." 

Faire  ben  the  chylde  unto  his  moder  clinging, 
But  fairer  yet  the  moder's  gentle  singing — 

" Lollyby,  lolly,  lollyby"; 
And  angels  came  and  kisst  the  dearie  smiling 
In  dreems  while  him  hys  moder  ben  beguiling 

With  "lolly,  lolly,  lollyby." 


246  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

Then  to  my  harte  sales  I:     "Oh,  that  thy  beating 
Colde  be  assuaged  by  some  sweete  voice  repeating 

'Lollyby,  lolly,  lollyby'; 

That  like  this  lyttel  chylde  I,  too,  ben  sleeping 
With  plaisaunt  phantasies  about  me  creeping, 

To  'lolly,  lolly,  lollyby'!" 

Some  time — mayhap  when  curfew  bells  are  ringing — 
A  weary  harte  shall  heare  straunge  voices  singing 

"Lollyby,  lolly,  lollyby"; 

Some  time,  mayhap,  with  Chryst's  love  round  me  streaming, 
I  shall  be  lulled  into  eternal  dreeming, 

With  "lolly,  lolly,  lollyby." 


A  VALENTINE 

YOUR  gran'ma,  in  her  youth,  was  quite 

As  blithe  a  little  maid  as  you. 
And,  though  her  hair  is  snowy  white, 

Her  eyes  still  have  their  maiden  blue, 
And  on  her  cheeks,  as  fair  as  thine, 

Methinks  a  girlish  blush  would  glow 
If  she  recalled  the  valentine 

She  got,  ah!   many  years  ago. 

A  valorous  youth  loved  gran'ma  then, 

And  wooed  her  in  that  auld  lang  syne; 
And  first  he  told  his  secret  when 

He  sent  the  maid  that  valentine. 
No  perfumed  page  nor  sheet  of  gold 

Was  that  first  hint  of  love  he  sent, 
But  with  the  secret  gran'pa  told — 

"I  love  you" — gran'ma  was  content. 

Go,  ask  your  gran'ma,  if  you  will, 

If — though  her  head  be  bowed  and  gray — 

If — though  her  feeble  pulse  be  chill — 
True  love  abideth  not  for  aye; 


AT  THE   DOOR  247 

By  that  quaint  portrait  on  the  wall, 

That  smiles  upon  her  from  above, 
Methinks  your  gran'ma  can  recall 

The  sweet  divinity  of  love. 

Dear  Elsie,  here  's  no  page  of  gold — 

No  sheet  embossed  with  cunning  art— 
But  here  's  a  solemn  pledge  of  old: 

"I  love  you,  love,  with  all  my  heart." 
And  if  in  what  I  send  you  here 

You  read  not  all  of  love  expressed, 
Go — go  to  gran'ma,  Elsie  dear, 

And  she  will  tell  you  all  the  rest! 


AT  THE  DOOR 

I  THOUGHT  myself,  indeed,  secure, 
So  fast  the  door,  so  firm  the  lock; 

But,  lo!  he  toddling  comes  to  lure 
My  parent  ear  with  timorous  knock. 

My  heart  were  stone  could  it  withstand 
The  sweetness  of  my  baby's  plea, — 

That  timorous,  baby  knocking  and 
"Please  let  me  in, — it's  only  me." 

I  threw  aside  the  unfinished  book, 
Regardless  of  its  tempting  charms, 

And,  opening  wide  the  door,  I  took 
My  laughing  darling  in  my  arms. 

Who  knows  but  in  Eternity, 
I,  like  a  truant  child,  shall  wait 

The  glories  of  a  life  to  be, 

Beyond  the  Heavenly  Father's  gate? 


248  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

And  will  that  Heavenly  Father  heed 
The  truant's  supplicating  cry, 

As  at  the  outer  door  I  plead, 
"  'Tis  I   O  Father!   only  I"  ? 


HI-SPY 

STRANGE  that  the  city  thoroughfare, 
Noisy  and  bustling  all  the  day, 

Should  with  the  night  renounce  its  care 
And  lend  itself  to  children's  play! 

Oh,  girls  are  girls,  and  boys  are  boys, 
And  have  been  so  since  Abel's  birth, 

And  shall  be  so  till  dolls  and  toys 

Are  with  the  children  swept  from  earth. 

The  self-same  sport  that  crowns  the  day 
Of  many  a  Syrian  shepherd's  son, 

Beguiles  the  little  lads  at  play 
By  night  in  stately  Babylon. 

I  hear  their  voices  in  the  street, 

Yet  't  is  so  different  now  from  then! 

Come,  brother!   from  your  winding-sheet, 
And  let  us  two  be  boys  again! 


LITTLE  BOY  BLUE 

THE  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust, 

But  sturdy  and  stanch  he  stands; 
And  the  little  toy  soldier  is  red  with  ri^st, 

And  his  musket  moulds  in  his  hands. 
Time  was^when  the  little  toy  dog  was  new, 

Arid  the  sojdier  was  passing  fair; 
And  thai  was  the  time  when  our  Little  Boy  Blue 

Kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 


249 


"Now,  don't  you  go  till  I  come,"  he  said, 

"And  don't  you  make  ajiy~noise!" 
So,  toddling  off  to  his  trundle-bed,         C/^ 

He  dreamt  of  the  pretty  toys; 
And,  asTie  was  dreaming,  an  angel  song 

Awakened  our  Little  Boy  Blue — 
Oh!  the  years  are  many,  the  years  are  long, 

But  the  little  toy  friends  are  true! 

Ay,  faithful  to  Little  Boy  Blue  they  stand, 

Each  in  the  same  old  place — 
Awaiting  the  touch  of  arnttle  hand, 

The  smile  of  a  lij#e  face ; 
And  they  wpjadef^as  waiting  the  long  years  through 

In  the  dust  of  that  little  chair, 
\Vhat  has  become  of  our  Little  Boy  Blue, 

Since  he  kissed_them  and  put  them  there. 


FATHER'S  LETTER 

I  'M  going  to  write  a  letter  to  our  oldest  boy  who  went 
Out  West  last  spring  to  practise  law  and  run  for  president; 
I  '11  tell  him  all  the  gossip  I  guess  he  'd  like  to  hear, 
For  he  has  n't  seen  the  home-folks  for  going  on  a  year! 
Most  generally  it 's  Marthy  does  the  writing,  but  as  she 
Is  suffering  with  a  felon,  why,  the  job  devolves  on  me — 
So,  when  the  supper  things  are  done  and  put  away  to-night, 
I  '11  draw  my  boots  and  shed  my  coat  and  settle  down  to  write. 

I  '11  tell  him  crops  are  looking  up,  with  prospects  big  for  corn, 
That,  fooling  with  the  barnyard  gate,  the  off -ox  hurt  his  horn; 
That  the  Templar  lodge  is  doing  well — Tim  Bennett  joined  last 

week 

When  the  prohibition  candidate  for  Congress  came  to  speak; 
That  the  old  gray  woodchuck  's  living  still  down  in  the  pasture-lot, 
A-wondering  what 's  become  of  little  William,  like  as  not! 
Oh,  yes,  there's  lots  of  pleasant  things  and  no  bad  news  to  tell, 
Except  that  old  Bill  Graves  was  sick,  but  now  he  's  up  and  well. 


250  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

Cy  Cooper  says — (but  I  '11  not  pass  my  word  that  it  is  so, 
For  Cy  he  is  some  punkins  on  spinning  yarns,  you  know) — 
He  says  that,  since  the  freshet,  the  pickerel  are  so  thick 
In  Baker's  pond  you  can  wade  in  and  kill  'em  with  a  stick! 
The  Hubbard  girls  are  teaching  school,  and  Widow  Cutler's  Bill 
Has  taken  Eli  Baxter's  place  in  Luther  Eastman's  mill; 
Old  Deacon  Skinner's  dog  licked  Deacon  Howard's  dog  last  week, 
And  now  there  are  two  lambkins  in  one  flock  that  will  not  speak. 

The  yellow  rooster  froze  his  feet,  a-wadin'  through  the  snow 

And  now  he  leans  ag'in'  the  fence  when  he  starts  in  to  crow; 

The  chestnut  colt  that  was  so  skittish  when  he  went  away — 

I  've  broke  him  to  the  sulky  and  I  drive  him  every  day! 

We  've  got  pink  window  curtains  for  the  front  spare-room  up 
stairs, 

And  Lizzie's  made  new  covers  for  the  parlor  lounge  and  chairs; 

We  've  roofed  the  barn  and  braced  the  elm  that  has  the  hangbird's 
nest — 

Oh,  there  's  been  lots  of  changes  since  our  William  went  out  West! 

Old  Uncle  Enos  Packard  is  getting  mighty  gay — 

He  gave  Miss  Susan  Birchard  a  peach  the  other  day! 

His  late  lamented  Sarah  hain't  been  buried  quite  a  year, 

So  his  purring  'round  Miss  Susan  causes  criticism  here. 

At  the  last  donation  party,  the  minister  opined 

That,  if  he  'd  half  suspicioned  what  was  coming,  he  'd  resigned; 

For,  though  they  brought  him  slippers  like  he  was  a  centipede, 

His  pantry  was  depleted  by  the  consequential  feed! 

These  are  the  things  I  '11  write  him — our  boy  that 's  in  the  West; 
And  I  '11  tell  him  how  we  miss  him — his  mother  and  the  rest; 
Why,  we  never  have  an  apple-pie  that  mother  does  n't  say: 
"He  liked  it  so — I  wish  that  he  could  have  a  piece  to-day!" 
I  '11  tell  him  we  are  prospering,  and  hope  he  is  the  same — 
That  we  hope  he  '11  have  no  trouble  getting  on  to  wealth  and 

fame; 

And  just  before  I  write  "good-by  from  father  and  the  rest," 
I'll  say  that  "mother  sends  her  love,"  and  that  will  please  him 

best. 


JEWISH   LULLABY  251 

For  when  I  went  away  from  home,  the  weekly  news  I  heard 

Was  nothing  to  the  tenderness  I  found  in  that  one  word — 

The  sacred  name  of  mother — why,  even  now  as  then, 

The  thought  brings  back  the  saintly  face,  the  gracious  love  again 

And  in  my  bosom  seems  to  come  a  peace  that  is  divine, 

As  if  an  angel  spirit  communed  awhile  with  mine; 

And  one  man's  heart  is  strengthened  by  the  message  from  above, 

And  earth  seems  nearer  heaven  when  "mother  sends  her  love/' 


JEWISH  LULLABY 

MY  harp  is  on  the  willow-tree, 
Else  would  I  sing,  O  love,  to  thee 

A  song  of  long-ago — 
Perchance  the  song  that  Miriam  sung 
Ere  yet  Judea's  heart  was  wrung 

By  centuries  of  woe. 

I  ate  my  crust  in  tears  to-day, 

As  scourged  I  went  upon  my  way — 

And  yet  my  darling  smiled; 
Ay,  beating  at  my  breast,  he  laughed — 
My  anguish  curdled  not  the  draught — 

'T  was  sweet  with  love,  my  child! 

The  shadow  of  the  centuries  lies 
Deep  in  thy  dark  and  mournful  eyes — 

But,  hush!   and  close  them  now; 
And  in  the  dreams  that  thou  shalt  dream 
The  light  of  other  days  shall  seem 

To  glorify  thy  brow! 

Our  harp  is  on  the  willow-tree — 
I  have  no  song  to  sing  to  thee, 

As  shadows  round  us  roll; 
But,  hush  and  sleep,  and  thou  shalt  hear 
Jehovah's  voice  that  speaks  to  cheer 

Judea's  fainting  soul  I 


252  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 


OUR  WHIPPINGS 

COME,  Harvey,  let  us  sit  awhile  and  talk  about  the  times 
Before  you  went  to  selling  clothes  and  I  to  peddling  rhymes — 
The  days  when  we  were  little  boys,  as  naughty  little  boys 
As  ever  worried  home-folks  with  their  everlasting  noise! 
Egad!   and,  wrere  we  so  disposed,  I  '11  venture  we  could  show 
The  scars  of  wallopings  we  got  some  forty  years  ago; 
What  wallopings  I  mean  I  think  I  need  not  specify — 
Mother's  whippings  did  n't  hurt,  but  father's !  oh,  my ! 

The  way  that  we  played  hookey  those  many  years  ago — 

We  'd  rather  give  'most  anything  than  have  our  children  know ! 

The  thousand  naughty  things  we  did,  the  thousand  fibs  we  told — 

Why,  thinking  of  them  makes  my  Presbyterian  blood  run  cold! 

How  often  Deacon  Sabine  Morse  remarked  if  we  were  his 

He  'd  tan  our  "pesky  little  hides  until  the  blisters  riz!" 

It 's  many  a  hearty  thrashing  to  that  Deacon  Morse  we  owe — 

Mother's  whippings  didn't  count — father's  did,  though! 

We  used  to  sneak  off  swimmin'  in  those  careless,  boyish  days, 
And  come  back  home  of  evenings  with  our  necks  and  backs  ablaze ; 
How  mother  used  to  wonder  why  our  clothes  were  full  of  sand, 
But  father,  having  been  a  boy,  appeared  to  understand. 
And,  after  tea,  he  'd  beckon  us  to  join  him  in  the  shed 
Where  he'd  proceed  to  tinge  our  backs  a  deeper,  darker  red; 
Say  what  we  will  of  mother's,  there  is  none  will  controvert 
The  proposition  that  our  father's  lickings  always  hurt! 

For  mother  was  by  nature  so  forgiving  and  so  mild 
That  she  inclined  to  spare  the  rod  although  she  spoiled  the  child; 
And  when  at  last  in  self-defence  she  had  to  whip  us,  she 
Appeared  to  feel  those  whippings  a  great  deal  more  than  we! 
But  how  we  bellowed  and  took  on,  as  if  we  'd  like  to  die — 
Poor  mother  really  thought  she  hurt,  and  that 's  what  made  her  cry! 
Then  how  we  youngsters  snickered  as  out  the  door  we  slid, 
For  mother's  whippings  never  hurt,  though  father's  always  did. 


THE   ARMENIAN   MOTHER  253 

In  after  years  poor  father  simmered  down  to  five  feet  four, 

But  in  our  youth  he  seemed  to  us  in  height  eight  feet  or  more! 

Oh,  how  we  shivered  when  he  quoth  in  cold,  suggestive  tone: 

"I  '11  see  you  in  the  woodshed  after  supper  all  alone!" 

Oh,  how  the  legs  and  arms  and  dust  and  trouser  buttons  flew — 

What  florid  vocalisms  marked  that  vesper  interview! 

Yes,  after  all  this  lapse  of  years,  I  feelingly  assert, 

With  all  respect  to  mother,  it  was  father's  whippings  hurt! 

The  little  boy  experiencing  that  tinglin'  neath  his  vest 

Is  often  loath  to  realize  that  all  is  for  the  best; 

Yet,  when  the  boy  gets  older,  he  pictures  with  delight 

The  buffetings  of  childhood — as  we  do  here  to-night. 

The  years,  the  gracious  years,  have  smoothed  and  beautified  the 

ways 

That  to  our  little  feet  seemed  all  too  rugged  in  the  days 
Before  you  went  to  selling  clothes  and  I  to  peddling  rhymes — 
So,  Harvey,  let  us  sit  awhile  and  think  upon  those  times. 


THE  ARMENIAN  MOTHER 

I  WAS  a  mother,  and  I  weep; 

The  night  is  come — the  day  is  sped — 
The  night  of  woe  profound,  for,  oh, 

My  little  golden  son  is  dead! 

The  pretty  rose  that  bloomed  anon 
Upon  my  mother  breast,  they  stole; 

They  let  the  dove  I  nursed  with  love 
Fly  far  away — so  sped  my  soul! 

That  falcon  Death  swooped  down  upon 
My  sweet- voiced  turtle  as  he  sung; 

'T  is  hushed  and  dark  where  soared  the  lark, 
And  so,  and  so  my  heart  was  wrung! 


254  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

Before  my  eyes,  they  sent  the  hail 
Upon  my  green  pomegranate-tree — 

Upon  the  bough  where  only  now 
A  rosy  apple  bent  to  me. 

They  shook  my  beauteous  almond-tree, 
Beating  its  glorious  bloom  to  death — 

They  strewed  it  round  upon  the  ground, 
And  mocked  its  fragrant  dying  breath. 

I  was  a  mother,  and  I  weep; 

I  seek  the  rose  where  nestleth  none — 
No  more  is  heard  the  singing  bird — 

I  have  no  little  golden  son! 

So  fall  the  shadows  over  me, 

The  blighted  garden,  lonely  nest. 

Reach  down  in  love,  O  God  above! 
And  fold  my  darling  to  thy  breast. 


HEIGHO,  MY  DEARIE 
(ORKNEY  LULLABY) 

A  MOONBEAM  floateth  from  the  skies, 

Whispering:     "Heigho,  my  dearie; 
I  would  spin  a  web  before  your  eyes — 
A  beautiful  web  of  silver  light 
Wherein  is  many  a  wondrous  sight 
Of  a  radiant  garden  leagues  away, 
Where  the  softly  tinkling  lilies  sway 
And  the  snow-white  lambkins  are  at  play- 
Heigho,  my  dearie!" 

A  brownie  stealeth  from  the  vine, 
Singing:  "Heigho,  my  dearie; 
And  will  you  hear  this  song  of  mine — 


TO   A   USURPER  255 

A  song  of  the  land  of  murk  and  mist 
Where  bideth  the  bud  the  dew  hath  kist? 
Then  let  the  moonbeam's  web  of  light 
Be  spun  before  thee  silvery  white, 
And  I  shall  sing  the  livelong  night — 
Heigho,  my  dearie!" 

The  night  wind  speedeth  from  the  sea, 

Murmuring:  "Heigho,  my  dearie; 
I  bring  a  mariner's  prayer  for  thee; 
So  let  the  moonbeam  veil  thine  eyes, 
And  the  brownie  sing  thee  lullabies — 
But  I  shall  rock  thee  to  and  fro, 
Kissing  the  brow  he  loveth  so. 
And  the  prayer  shall  guard  thy  bed,  I  trow — 

Heigho,  my  dearie!" 


TO  A  USURPER 

AHA!   a  traitor  in  the  camp, 

A  rebel  strangely  bold, — 
A  lisping,  laughing,  toddling  scamp, 

Not  more  than  four  years  old! 

To  think  that  I,  who  've  ruled  alone 

So  proudly  in  the  past, 
Should  be  ejected  from  my  throne 

By  my  own  son  at  last! 

He  trots  his  treason  to  and  fro, 

As  only  babies  can, 
And  says  he  '11  be  his  mamma's  beau 

When  he  's  a  "gweat,  big  man"! 

You  stingy  boy!  you  've  always  had 

A  share  in  mamma's  heart. 
Would  you  begrudge  your  poor  old  dad 

The  tiniest  little  part? 


256  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 

That  mamma,  I  regret  to  see, 
Inclines  to  take  your  part, — 

As  if  a  dual  monarchy 

Should  rule  her  gentle  heart! 

But  when  the  years  of  youth  have  sped, 
The  bearded  man,  I  trow, 

Will  quite  forget  he  ever  said 
He  'd  be  his  mamma's  beau. 

Renounce  your  treason,  little  son, 
Leave  mamma's  heart  to  me; 

For  there  will  come  another  one 
To  claim  your  loyalty. 

And  when  that  other  comes  to  you, 
God  grant  her  love  may  shine, 

Through  all  your  life,  as  fair  and  true 
As  mamma's  does  through  mine! 


THE  BELL-FLOWER  TREE 

WHEN  brother  Bill  and  I  were  boys, 

How  often  in  the  summer  we 
Would  seek  the  shade  your  branches  made, 

O  fair  and  gracious  bell-flower  tree! 
Amid  the  clover  bloom  we  sat 

And  looked  upon  the  Holyoke  range, 
While  Fido  lay  a  space  away, 

Thinking  our  silence  very  strange. 

The  woodchuck  in  the  pasture-lot, 

Beside  his  furtive  hole  elate, 
Heard,  off  beyond  the  pickerel  pond, 

The  redwing-blackbird  chide  her  mate. 
The  bumblebee  went  bustling  round, 

Pursuing  labors  never  done — 
With  drone  and  sting,  the  greedy  thing 

Begrudged  the  sweets  we  lay  upon! 


THE    BELL-FLOWER   TREE  257 

Our  eyes  looked  always  at  the  hills — 

The  Holyoke  hills  that  seemed  to  stand 
Between  us  boys  and  pictured  joys 

Of  conquest  in  a  further  land! 
Ah,  how  we  coveted  the  time 

When  we  should  leave  this  prosy  place 
And  work  our  wills  beyond  those  hills, 

And  meet  creation  face  to  face! 

You  must  have  heard  our  childish  talk — 

Perhaps  our  prattle  gave  you  pain; 
For  then,  old  friend,  you  seemed  to  bend 

Your  kindly  arms  about  us  twain. 
It  might  have  been  the  wind  that  sighed, 

And  yet  I  thought  I  heard  you  say: 
"Seek  not  the  ills  beyond  those  hills — 

Oh,  stay  with  me,  my  children,  stay!'* 

See,  I  've  come  back;   the  boy  you  knew 

Is  wiser,  older,  sadder  grown; 
I  come  once  more,  just  as  of  yore — 

I  come,  but  see!   I  come  alone! 
The  memory  of  a  brother's  love, 

Of  blighted  hopes,  I  bring  with  me, 
And  here  I  lay  my  heart  to-day — 

A  weary  heart,  O  bell-flower  tree! 

So  let  me  nestle  in  your  shade 

As  though  I  were  a  boy  again, 
And  pray  extend  your  arms,  old  friend. 

And  love  me  as  you  used  to  then. 
Sing  softly  as  you  used  to  sing, 

And  maybe  I  shall  seem  to  be 
A  little  boy  and  feel  the  joy 

Of  thy  repose,  O  bell-flower  tree  I 


258  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 


FAIRY  AND   CHILD 

OH,  listen,  little  Dear-My-Soul, 

To  the  fairy  voices  calling, 
For  the  moon  is  high  in  the  misty  sky 

And  the  honey  dew  is  falling; 
To  the  midnight  feast  in  the  clover  bloom 

The  bluebells  are  a-ringing, 
And  it 's  "Come  away  to  the  land  of  fay'* 

That  the  katydid  is  singing. 

Oh,  slumber,  little  Dear-My-Soul, 

And  hand  in  hand  we  '11  wander — 
Hand  in  hand  to  the  beautiful  land 

Of  Balow,  away  off  yonder; 
Or  we  '11  sail  along  in  a  lily  leaf 

Into  the  white  moon's  halo — 
Over  a  stream  of  mist  and  dream 

Into  the  land  of  Balow. 

Or,  you  shall  have  two  beautiful  wings — 

Two  gossamer  wings  and  airy, 
And  all  the  while  shall  the  old  moon  smile 

And  think  you  a  little  fairy; 
And  you  shall  dance  in  the  velvet  sky, 

And  the  silvery  stars  shall  twinkle 
And  dream  sweet  dreams  as  over  their  beams 

Your  footfalls  softly  tinkle. 


THE  GRANDSIRE 

I  LOVED  him  so;   his  voice  had  grown 
Into  my  heart,  and  now  to  hear 

The  pretty  song  he  had  sung  so  long 
Die  on  the  lips  to  me  so  dear! 


HUSHABY,    SWEET    MY    OWN  259 

He  a  child  with  golden  curls, 

And  I  with  head  as  white  as  snow — 
I  knelt  down  there  and  made  this  pray'r: 

"God,  let  me  be  the  first  to  go!" 

How  often  I  recall  it  now: 

My  darling  tossing  on  his  bed, 
I  sitting  there  in  mute  despair, 

Smoothing  the  curls  that  crowned  his  head. 
They  did  not  speak  to  me  of  death — 

A  feeling  here  had  told  me  so; 
What  could  I  say  or  do  but  pray 

That  I  might  be  the  first  to  go? 

Yet,  thinking  of  him  standing  there 

Out  yonder  as  the  years  go  by, 
Waiting  for  me  to  come,  I  see 

'T  was  better  he  should  wait,  not  I. 
For  when  I  walk  the  vale  of  death, 

Above  the  wail  of  Jordan's  flow 
Shall  rise  a  song  that  shall  make  me  strong — 

The  call  of  the  child  that  was  first  to  go. 


HUSHABY,  SWEET  MY  OWN 
(LULLABY:  BY  THE  SEA) 

FAIR  is  the  castle  upon  the  hill — 
Hushaby,  sweet  my  own! 
The  night  is  fair,  and  the  waves  are  still, 
And  the  wind  is  singing  to  you  and  to  me 
In  this  lowly  home  beside  the  sea — 
Hushaby,  sweet  my  own! 

On  yonder  hill  is  store  of  wealth — 
Hushaby,  sweet  my  own! 
And  revellers  drink  to  a  little  one's  health; 


260  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

But  you  and  I  bide  night  and  day 
For  the  other  love  that  has  sailed  away — 
Hushaby,  sweet  my  own! 

See  not,  dear  eyes,  the  forms  that  creep 
Ghostlike,  O  my  own! 

Out  of  the  mists  of  the  murmuring  deep; 

Oh,  see  them  not  and  make  no  cry 

Till  the  angels  of  death  have  passed  us  by — 
Hushaby,  sweet  my  own! 

Ah,  little  they  reck  of  you  and  me — 
Hushaby,  sweet  my  own! 

In  our  lonely  home  beside  the  sea; 

They  seek  the  castle  up  on  the  hill, 

And  there  they  will  do  their  ghostly  will — 
Hushaby,  O  my  own! 

Here  by  the  sea  a  mother  croons 

" Hushaby,  sweet  my  own!" 
In  yonder  castle  a  mother  swoons 
While  the  angels  go  down  to  the  misty  deep, 
Bearing  a  little  one  fast  asleep — 
Hushaby,  sweet  my  own! 


CHILD  AND  MOTHER 

0  MOTHER-MY-LOVE,  if  you  '11  give  me  your  hand, 
And  go  where  I  ask  you  to  wander, 

1  will  lead  you  away  to  a  beautiful  land — 
The  Dreamland  that 's  waiting  out  yonder. 

We  '11  walk  in  a  sweet-posie  garden  out  there 
Where  moonlight  and  starlight  are  streaming 

And  the  flowers  and  the  birds  are  filling  the  air 
With  the  fragrance  and  music  of  dreaming. 


MEDIAEVAL   EVENTIDE    SONG  261 

There  '11  be  no  little  tired-out  boy  to  undress, 

No  questions  or  cares  to  perplex  you; 
There  '11  be  no  little  bruises  or  bumps  to  caress, 

Nor  patching  of  stockings  to  vex  you. 
For  I  '11  rock  you  away  on  a  silver-dew  stream, 

And  sing  you  asleep  when  you  're  weary, 
And  no  one  shall  know  of  our  beautiful  dream 

But  you  and  your  own  little  dearie. 

And  when  I  am  tired  I  '11  nestle  my  head 

In  the  bosom  that 's  soothed  me  so  often, 
And  the  wide-awake  stars  shall  sing  in  my  stead 

A  song  which  our  dreaming  shall  soften. 
So,  Mother-My-Love,  let  me  take  your  dear  hand, 

And  away  through  the  starlight  we  '11  wander — 
Away  through  the  mist  to  the  beautiful  land — 

The  Dreamland  that 's  waiting  out  yonder! 


MEDLEVAL  EVENTIDE  SONG 

COME  hither,  lyttel  childe,  and  lie  upon  my  breast  to-night, 
For  yonder  fares  an  angell  yclad  in  raimaunt  white, 
And  yonder  sings  ye  angell  as  onely  angells  may, 
And  his  songe  ben  of  a  garden  that  bloometh  farre  awaye. 

To  them  that  have  no  lyttel  childe  Godde  sometimes  sendeth  down 

A  lyttel  childe  that  ben  a  lyttel  angell  of  his  owne; 

And  if  so  bee  they  love  that  childe,  he  willeth  it  to  staye, 

But  elsewise,  in  his  mercie,  he  taketh  it  awaye. 

And  sometimes,  though  they  love  it,  Godde  yearneth  for  ye  childe, 
And  sendeth  angells  singing,  whereby  it  ben  beguiled; 
They  fold  their  arms  about  ye  lamb  that  croodleth  at  his  play, 
And  beare  him  to  ye  garden  that  bloometh  farre  awaye. 


262  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

I  wolde  not  lose  ye  lyttel  lamb  that  Godde  hath  sent  to  me; 
If  I  colde  sing  that  angellsonge,  how  joysome  I  sholde  be! 
For,  with  mine  arms  about  him,  and  my  musick  in  his  eare, 
What  angell  songe  of  paradize  soever  sholde  I  feare  ? 

Soe  come,  my  lyttel  childe,  and  lie  upon  my  breast  to-night, 
For  yonder  fares  an  angell  yclad  in  raimaunt  white, 
And  yonder  sings  that  angell,  as  onely  angells  may, 
And  his  songe  ben  of  a  garden  that  bloometh  farre  awaye. 


ARMENIAN  LULLABY 

IF  thou  wilt  shut  thy  drowsy  eyes, 
My  mulberry  one,  my  golden  sun! 

The  rose  shall  sing  thee  lullabies, 
My  pretty  cosset  lambkin! 

And  thou  shalt  swing  in  an  almond-tree, 

With  a  flood  of  moonbeams  rocking  thee- 

A  silver  boat  in  a  golden  sea, 

My  velvet  love,  my  nestling  dove, 
My  own  pomegranate  blossom! 

The  stork  shall  guard  thee  passing  well 
All  night,  my  sweet!   my  dimple-feet! 
And  bring  thee  myrrh  and  asphodel, 

My  gentle  rain-of-springtime! 
And  for  thy  slumbrous  play  shall  twine 
The  diamond  stars  with  an  emerald  vine 
To  trail  in  the  waves  of  ruby  wine, 
My  myrtle  bloom,  my  heart's  perfume, 
My  little  chirping  sparrow! 

And  when  the  morn  wakes  up  to  see 
My  apple  bright,  my  soul's  delight! 

The  partridge  shall  come  calling  thee, 
My  jar  of  milk-and-honey! 


CHRISTMAS   TREASURES  263 

Yes,  thou  shalt  know  what  mystery  lies 

In  the  amethyst  deep  of  the  curtained  skies, 

If  thou  wilt  fold  thy  onyx  eyes, 

You  wakeful  one,  you  naughty  son, 
You  cooing  little  turtle! 


CHRISTMAS  TREASURES 

I  COUNT  my  treasures  o'er  with  care, — 

The  little  toy  my  darling  knew, 

A  little  sock  of  faded  hue, 
A  little  lock  of  golden  hair. 

Long  years  ago  this  holy  time, 
My  little  one — my  all  to  me — 
Sat  robed  in  white  upon  my  knee, 

And  heard  the  merry  Christmas  chime. 

"Tell  me,  my  little  golden-head, 

If  Santa  Claus  should  come  to-night, 
What  shall  he  bring  my  baby  bright, — 

What  treasure  for  my  boy?"    I  said. 

And  then  he  named  this  little  toy, 

While  in  his  round  and  mournful  eyes 
There  came  a  look  of  sweet  surprise, 

That  spake  his  quiet,  trustful  joy. 

And  as  he  lisped  his  evening  prayer 
He  asked  the  boon  with  childish  grace; 
Then,  toddling  to  the  chimney-place, 

He  hung  this  little  stocking  there. 

That  night,  while  lengthening  shadows  crept, 
I  saw  the  white-winged  angels  come 
With  singing  to  our  lowly  home 

And  kiss  my  darling  as  he  slept. 


264  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

They  must  have  heard  his  little  prayer, 
For  in  the  morn,  with  rapturous  face, 
He  toddled  to  the  chimney-place, 

And  found  this  little  treasure  there. 

They  came  again  one  Christmas-tide, — 
That  angel  host,  so  fair  and  white; 
And,  singing  all  that  glorious  night, 

They  lured  my  darling  from  my  side. 

A  little  sock,  a  little  toy, 
A  little  lock  of  golden  hair, 
The  Christmas  music  on  the  air, 

A  watching  for  my  baby  boy! 

But  if  again  that  angel  train 
And  golden-head  come  back  for  me, 
To  bear  me  to  Eternity, 

My  watching  will  not  be  in  vain. 


OH,  LITTLE  CHILD 

(SICILIAN  LULLABY) 

HUSH,  little  one,  and  fold  your  hands — 

The  sun  hath  set,  the  moon  is  high; 
The  sea  is  singing  to  the  sands, 

And  wakeful  posies  are  beguiled 
By  many  a  fairy  lullaby — 

Hush,  little  child — my  little  child! 

Dream,  little  one,  and  in  your  dreams 

Float  upward  from  this  lowly  place — 
Float  out  on  mellow,  misty  streams 

To  lands  where  bideth  Mary  mild, 
And  let  her  kiss  thy  little  face, 
You  little  child— my  little  child! 


GANDERFEATHER'S  GIFT  265 

Sleep,  little  one,  and  take  thy  rest — 

With  angels  bending  over  thee, 
Sleep  sweetly  on  that  Father's  breast 

Whom  our  dear  Christ  hath  reconciled — 
But  stay  not  there — come  back  to  me, 
Oh,  little  child— my  little  child! 


GANDERFEATHER'S  GIFT 

I  WAS  just  a  little  thing 

When  a  fairy  came  and  kissed  me; 
Floating  in  upon  the  light 
Of  a  haunted  summer  night, 
Lo,  the  fairies  came  to  sing 
Pretty  slumber  songs  and  bring 

Certain  boons  that  else  had  missed  me. 
From  a  dream  I  turned  to  see 
What  those  strangers  brought  for  me, 

When  that  fairy  up  and  kissed  me — 

Here,  upon  this  cheek,  he  kissed  me! 

Simmerdew  was  there,  but  she 

Did  not  like  me  altogether; 
Daisybright  and  Turtledove, 
Pilfercurds  and  Honeylove, 
Thistleblow  and  Amberglee 
On  that  gleaming,  ghostly  sea 

Floated  from  the  misty  heather, 
And  around  my  trundle-bed 
Frisked,  and  looked,  and  whispering  said- 

Solemnlike  and  all  together: 

"  You  shall  kiss  him,  Ganderfeather!" 

Ganderfeather  kissed  me  then — 

Ganderfeather,  quaint  and  merry! 
No  attenuate  sprite  was  he, 
— But  as  buxom  as  could  be; — 


266  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 

Kissed  me  twice,  and  once  again, 
And  the  others  shouted  when 

On  my  cheek  uprose  a  berry 
Somewhat  like  a  mole,  mayhap, 
But  the  kiss-mark  of  that  chap 
Ganderfeather,  passing  merry — 
Humorsome,  but  kindly,  very! 

I  was  just  a  tiny  thing 

When  the  prankish  Ganderfeather 
Brought  this  curious  gift  to  me 
With  his  fairy  kisses  three; 
Yet  with  honest  pride  I  sing 
That  same  gift  he  chose  to  bring 

Out  of  yonder  haunted  heather. 
Other  charms  and  friendships  fly — 
Constant  friends  this  mole  and  I, 

Who  have  been  so  long  together. 

Thank  you,  little  Ganderfeather! 


BAMBINO 

(CORSICAN  LULLABY) 

BAMBINO  in  his  cradle  slept; 

And  by  his  side  his  grandam  grim 
Bent  down  and  smiled  upon  the  child, 

And  sung  this  lullaby  to  him, — 

This  "ninna  and  anninia": 

"When  thou  art  older,  thou  shalt  mind 
To  traverse  countries  far  and  wide, 

And  thou  shalt  go  where  roses  blow 
And  balmy  waters  singing  glide — 
So  ninna  and  anninia  I 


LITTLE  HOMER'S  SLATE  267 

"And  thou  shalt  wear,  trimmed  up  in  points, 

A  famous  jacket  edged  in  red, 
And,  more  than  that,  a  peaked  hat, 

All  decked  in  gold,  upon  thy  head — 
Ah!   ninna  and  anninia! 

"Then  shalt  thou  carry  gun  and  knife. 

Nor  shall  the  soldiers  bully  thee; 
Perchance,  beset  by  wrong  or  debt, 

A  mighty  bandit  thou  shalt  be — 
So  ninna  and  anninia! 

'  No  woman  yet  of  our  proud  race 

Lived  to  her  fourteenth  year  unwed; 
The  brazen  churl  that  eyed  a  girl 

Bought  her  the  ring  or  paid  his  head — 
So  ninna  and  anninia! 

"But  once  came  spies  (I  know  the  thieves!) 

And  brought  disaster  to  our  race; 
God  heard  us  when  our  fifteen  men 

Were  hanged  within  the  market-place — 
But  ninna  and  anninia! 

'Good  men  they  were,  my  babe,  and  true, — 

Right  worthy  fellows  all,  and  strong; 
Live  thou  and  be  for  them  and  me 
Avenger  of  that  deadly  wrong — 
So  ninna  and  anninia!" 


LITTLE  HOMER'S  SLATE 

AFTER  dear  old  grandma  died, 
Hunting  through  an  oaken  chest 

In  the  attic,  we  espied 

What  repaid  our  childish  quest; 

'T  was  a  homely  little  slate, 

Seemingly  of  ancient  date. 


268  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

On  its  quaint  and  battered  face 
Was  the  picture  of  a  cart, 

Drawn  with  all  that  awkward  grace 
Which  betokens  childish  art; 

But  what  meant  this  legend,  pray: 

" Homer  drew  this  yesterday"? 

Mother  recollected  then 

What  the  years  were  fain  to  hide- 
She  was  but  a  baby  when 

Little  Homer  lived  and  died; 
Forty  years,  so  mother  said, 
Little  Homer  had  been  dead. 

This  one  secret  through  those  years 
Grandma  kept  from  all  apart, 

Hallowed  by  her  lonely  tears 
And  the  breaking  of  her  heart; 

While  each  year  that  sped  away 

Seemed  to  her  but  yesterday. 

So  the  homely  little  slate 

Grandma's  baby's  fingers  pressed, 

To  a  memory  consecrate, 
Lieth  in  the  oaken  chest, 

Where,  unwilling  we  should  know, 

Grandma  put  it,  years  ago. 


THE  ROCK-A-BY  LADY 

THE  Rock-a-By  Lady  from  Hushaby  street 

Comes  stealing;    comes  creeping; 
The  poppies  they  hang  from  her  head  to  her  feet, 
And  each  hath  a  dream  that  is  tiny  and  fleet — 
She  bringeth  her  poppies  to  you,  my  sweet, 

When  she  findeth  you  sleeping! 


269 

There  is  one  little  dream  of  a  beautiful  drum — 

"Rub-a-dub!"    itgoeth; 

There  is  one  little  dream  of  a  big  sugar-plum, 
And  lo!  thick  and  fast  the  other  dreams  come 
Of  popguns  that  bang,  and  tin  tops  that  hum, 

And  a  trumpet  that  bloweth! 

And  dollies  peep  out  of  those  wee  little  dreams 

With  laughter  and  singing; 
And  boats  go  a-floating  on  silvery  streams, 
And  the  stars  peek-a-boo  with  their  own  misty  gleams, 
And  up,  up,  and  up,  where  the  Mother  Moon  beams, 

The  fairies  go  winging! 

Would  you  dream  all  these  dreams  that  are  tiny  and  fleet  ? 

They  '11  come  to  you  sleeping; 
So  shut  the  two  eyes  that  are  weary,  my  sweet, 
For  the  Rock-a-By  Lady  from  Hushaby  street, 
With  poppies  that  hang  from  her  head  to  her  feet, 

Comes  stealing;   comes  creeping. 


"BOOH!" 

ON  afternoons,  when  baby  boy  has  had  a  splendid  nap, 

And  sits,  like  any  monarch  on  his  throne,  in  nurse's  lap, 

In  some  such  wise  my  handkerchief  I  hold  before  my  face, 

And  cautiously  and  quietly  I  move  about  the  place; 

Then,  with  a  cry,  I  suddenly  expose  my  face  to  view, 

And  you  should  hear  him  laugh  and  crow  when  I  say  "Booh!" 

Sometimes  the  rascal  tries  to  make  believe  that  he  is  scared, 
And  really,  when  I  first  began,  he  stared,  and  stared,  and  stared; 
And  then  his  under  lip  came  out  and  farther  out  it  came, 
Till  mamma  and  the  nurse  agreed  it  was  a  "cruel  shame" — 
But  now  what  does  that  same  wee,  toddling,  lisping  baby  do 
But  laugh  and  kick  his  little  heels  when  I  say  "Booh!" 


270  POEMS   OF  CHILDHOOD 

He  laughs  and  kicks  his  little  heels  in  rapturous  glee,  and  then 

In  shrill,  despotic  treble  bids  me  "do  it  all  aden!" 

And  I — of  course  I  do  it;   for,  as  his  progenitor, 

It  is  such  pretty,  pleasant  play  as  this  that  I  am  for! 

And  it  is,  oh,  such  fun!   and  I  am  sure  that  we  shall  rue 

The  time  when  we  are  both  too  old  to  play  the  game  of  "Booh!' 


GARDEN  AND  CRADLE 

WHEN  our  babe  he  goeth  walking  in  his  garden, 
Around  his  tinkling  feet  the  sunbeams  play; 

The  posies  they  are  good  to  him, 

And  bow  them  as  they  should  to  him, 
As  fareth  he  upon  his  kingly  way; 

And  birdlings  of  the  wood  to  him 
Make  music,  gentle  music,  all  the  day, 

When  our  babe  he  goeth  walking  in  his  garden. 

When  our  babe  he  goeth  swinging  in  his  cradle, 
Then  the  night  it  looketh  ever  sweetly  down; 
The  little  stars  are  kind  to  him, 
The  moon  she  hath  a  mind  to  him 
And  layeth  on  his  head  a  golden  crown; 

And  singeth  then  the  wind  to  him 
A  song,  the  gentle  song  of  Bethle'm-town, 
When  our  babe  he  goeth  swinging  in  his  cradle. 


THE  NIGHT  WIND 

HAVE  you  ever  heard  the  wind  go  "Yooooo"? 

'T  is  a  pitiful  sound  to  hear! 
It  seems  to  chill  you  through  and  through 

With  a  strange  and  speechless  fear. 
'T  is  the  voice  of  the  night  that  broods  outside 

When  folk  should  be  asleep, 
And  many  and  many  's  the  time  I  've  cried 


THE   NIGHT   WIND  271 

To  the  darkness  brooding  far  and  wide 

Over  the  land  and  the  deep: 
"Whom  do  you  want,  O  lonely  night, 

That  you  wail  the  long  hours  through?" 
And  the  night  would  say  in  its  ghostly  way: 
"Yoooooooo! 
Yoooooooo ! 
Yoooooooo!" 

My  mother  told  me  long  ago 

(When  I  was  a  little  tad) 
That  when  the  night  went  wailing  so, 

Somebody  had  been  bad; 
And  then,  when  I  was  snug  in  bed, 

Whither  I  had  been  sent, 
With  the  blankets  pulled  up  round  my  head, 
I  'd  think  of  what  my  mother  Jd  said, 

And  wonder  what  boy  she  meant! 
And  "Who  's  been  bad  to-day?"   I  'd  ask 

Of  the  wind  that  hoarsely  blew, 
And  the  voice  would  say  in  its  meaningful  way: 
"Yoooooooo! 
Yoooooooo! 
Yoooooooo!" 

That  this  was  true  I  must  allow — 

You  '11  not  believe  it,  though! 
Yes,  though  I  'm  quite  a  model  now, 

I  was  not  always  so. 
And  if  you  doubt  what  things  I  say, 

Suppose  you  make  the  test; 
Suppose,  when  you  've  been  bad  some  day 
And  up  to  bed  are  sent  away 

From  mother  and  the  rest — 
Suppose  you  ask,  "Who  has  been  bad?" 

And  then  you  '11  hear  what 's  true; 
For  the  wind  will  moan  in  its  ruefullest  tone: 
"Yoooooooo! 
Yoooooooo! 
Yoooooooo ! " 


272  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 


KISSING  TIME 

'Tis  when  the  lark  goes  soaring 

And  the  bee  is  at  the  bud, 
When  lightly  dancing  zephyrs 

Sing  over  field  and  flood; 
When  all  sweet  things  in  nature 

Seem  joyfully  achime — 
'T  is  then  I  wake  my  darling, 

For  it  is  kissing  time! 

Go,  pretty  lark,  a-soaring, 

And  suck  your  sweets,  O  bee; 
Sing,  O  ye  winds  of  summer, 

Your  songs  to  mine  and  me; 
For  with  your  song  and  rapture 

Cometh  the  moment  when 
It 's  half-past  kissing  time 

And  time  to  kiss  again! 

So — so  the  days  go  fleeting 

Like  golden  fancies  free, 
And  every  day  that  cometh 

Is  full  of  sweets  for  me; 
And  sweetest  are  those  moments 

My  darling  comes  to  climb 
Into  my  lap  to  mind  me 

That  it  is  kissing  time. 

Sometimes,  maybe,  he  wanders 

A  heedless,  aimless  way — 
Sometimes,  maybe,  he  loiters 

In  pretty,  prattling  play; 
But  presently  bethinks  him 

And  hastens  to  me  then, 
For  it 's  half-past  kissing  time 

And  time  to  kiss  again! 


273 


JEST  TORE  CHRISTMAS 

FATHER  calls  me  William,  sister  calls  me  Will, 

Mother  calls  me  Willie,  but  the  fellers  call  me  Bill! 

Mighty  glad  I  ain't  a  girl — ruther  be  a  boy, 

Without  them  sashes,  curls,  an'  things  that 's  worn  by  Fauntleroy! 

Love  to  chawnk  green  apples  an'  go  swimmin'  in  the  lake — 

Hate  to  take  the  castor-ile  they  give  for  bellyache! 

'Most  all  the  time,  the  whole  year  round,  there  ain't  no  flies  on  me, 

But  jest  'fore  Christmas  I  'm  as  good  as  I  kin  be! 

Got  a  yeller  dog  named  Sport,  sick  him  on  the  cat; 
First  thing  she  knows  she  does  n't  know  where  she  is  at! 
Got  a  clipper  sled,  an'  when  us  kids  goes  out  to  slide, 
'Long  comes  the  grocery  cart,  an'  we  all  hook  a  ride! 
But  sometimes  when  the  grocery  man  is  worrited  an'  cross, 
He  reaches  at  us  with  his  whip,  an'  larrups  up  his  hoss, 
An'  then  I  laff  an'  holler,  "Oh,  ye  never  teched  me!" 
But  jest  'fore  Christmas  I  'm  as  good  as  I  kin  be! 

Gran'ma  says  she  hopes  that  when  I  git  to  be  a  man, 

I  '11  be  a  missionarer  like  her  oldest  brother,  Dan, 

As  was  et  up  by  the  cannibuls  that  lives  in  Ceylon's  Isle, 

Where  every  prospeck  pleases,  an'  only  man  is  vile! 

But  gran'ma  she  has  never  been  to  see  a  Wild  West  show, 

Nor  read  the  Life  of  Daniel  Boone,  or  else  I  guess  she  'd  know 

That  Buff'lo  Bill  an'  cowboys  is  good  enough  for  me! 

Excepf  jest  'fore  Christmas,  when  I  'm  good  as  I  kin  be! 

And  then  old  Sport  he  hangs  around,  so  solemnlike  an'  still, 
His  eyes  they  seem  a-sayin':  "What's  the  matter,  little  Bill?" 
The  old  cat  sneaks  down  off  her  perch  an'  wonders  what 's  become 
Of  them  two  enemies  of  hern  that  used  to  make  things  hum! 
But  I  am  so  perlite  an'  tend  so  earnestly  to  biz, 
That  mother  says  to  father:  "How  improved  our  Willie  is!" 
But  father,  havin'  been  a  boy  hisself,  suspicions  me 
When,  jest  'fore  Christmas,  I  'm  as  good  as  I  kin  be! 


274  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

For  Christmas,  with  its  lots  an'  lots  of  candies,  cakes,  an'  toys, 
Was  made,  they  say,  for  proper  kids  an'  not  for  naughty  boys; 
So  wash  yer  face  an'  bresh  yer  hair,  an'  mind  yer  p's  and  q's, 
An'  don't  bust  out  yer  pantaloons,  and  don't  wear  out  yer  shoes; 
Say  "Yessum"  to  the  ladies,  and  "Yessur"  to  the  men, 
An'  when  they  's  company,  don't  pass  yer  plate  for  pie  again; 
But,  thinkin'  of  the  things  yer  'd  like  to  see  upon  that  tree, 
Jest  'fore  Christmas  be  as  good  as  yer  kin  be! 


BEARD  AND  BABY 

I  SAY,  as  one  who  never  feared 
The  wrath  of  a  subscriber's  bullet, 

I  pity  him  who  has  a  beard 
But  has  no  little  girl  to  pull  it! 

When  wife  and  I  have  finished  tea, 
Our  baby  woos  me  with  her  prattle, 

And,  perching  proudly  on  my  knee, 
She  gives  my  petted  whiskers  battle. 

With  both  her  hands  she  tugs  away, 
While  scolding  at  me  kind  o'  spiteful; 

You  '11  not  believe  me  when  I  say 
I  find  the  torture  quite  delightful! 

No  other  would  presume,  I  ween, 
To  trifle  with  this  hirsute  wonder, 

Else  would  I  rise  in  vengeful  mien 
And  rend  his  vandal  frame  asunder! 

But  when  her  baby  fingers  pull 

This  glossy,  sleek,  and  silky  treasure, 

My  cup  of  happiness  is  full — 

I  fairly  glow  with  pride  and  pleasure! 


THE   DINKEY-BIRD  275 

And,  sweeter  still,  through  all  the  day 
I  seem  to  hear  her  winsome  prattle — 

I  seem  to  feel  her  hands  at  play, 

As  though  they  gave  me  sportive  battle. 

Yes,  heavenly  music  seems  to  steal 
Where  thought  of  her  forever  lingers, 

And  round  my  heart  I  always  feel 
The  twining  of  her  dimpled  fingers! 


THE  DINKEY-BIRD 

IN  an  ocean,  'way  out  yonder 

(As  all  sapient  people  know), 
Is  the  land  of  Wonder- Wander, 

Whither  children  love  to  go; 
It 's  their  playing,  romping,  swinging, 

That  give  great  joy  to  me 
While  the  Dinkey-Bird  goes  singing 

In  the  amf alula  tree! 

There  the  gum-drops  grow  like  cherries, 

And  taffy's  thick  as  peas — 
Caramels  you  pick  like  berries 

When,  and  where,  and  how  you  please; 
Big  red  sugar-plums  are  clinging 

To  the  cliffs  beside  that  sea 
Where  the  Dinkey-Bird  is  singing 

In  the  amfalula  tree. 

So  when  children  shout  and  scamper 

And  make  merry  all  the  day, 
When  there  's  naught  to  put  a  damper 

To  the  ardor  of  their  play; 
When  I  hear  their  laughter  ringing, 

Then  I  'm  sure  as  sure  can  be 
That  the  Dinkey-Bird  is  singing 

In  the  amfalula  tree. 


POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

For  the  Dinkey-Bird's  bravuras 

And  staccatos  are  so  sweet — 
His  roulades,  appoggiaturas, 

And  robustos  so  complete, 
That  the  youth  of  every  nation — 

Be  they  near  or  far  away — 
Have  especial  delectation 

In  that  gladsome  roundelay. 

Their  eyes  grow  bright  and  brighter, 

Their  lungs  begin  to  crow, 
Their  hearts  get  light  and  lighter, 

And  their  cheeks  are  all  aglow; 
For  an  echo  cometh  bringing 

The  news  to  all  and  me, 
That  the  Dinkey-Bird  is  singing 

In  the  amfalula  tree. 

I  'm  sure  you  like  to  go  there 

To  see  your  feathered  friend — 
And  so  many  goodies  grow  there 

You  would  like  to  comprehend! 
Speed,  little  dreams,  your  winging 

To  that  land  across  the  sea, 
Where  the  Dinkey-Bird  is  singing 

In  the  amfalula  tree! 


THE   DRUM 

I  'M  a  beautiful  red,  red  drum, 

And  I  train  with  the  soldier  boys; 
As  up  the  street  we  come, 

Wonderful  is  our  noise! 
There  's  Tom,  and  Jim,  and  Phil, 

And  Dick,  and  Nat,  and  Fred, 
While  Widow  Cutler's  Bill 

And  I  march  on  ahead, 


THE   DRUM  277 

With  a  r-r-rat-tat-tat 

And  a  tum-titty-um-tum-tum — 
Oh,  there  's  bushels  of  fun  in  that 

For  boys  with  a  little  red  drum! 

The  Injuns  came  last  night 

While  the  soldiers  were  abed, 
And  they  gobbled  a  Chinese  kite 

And  off  to  the  woods  they  fled! 
The  woods  are  the  cherry-trees 

Down  in  the  orchard  lot, 
And  the  soldiers  are  marching  to  seize 

The  booty  the  Injuns  got. 
With  tum-titty-um-tum-tum, 

And  r-r-rat-tat-tat, 
When  soldiers  marching  come 

Injuns  had  better  scat! 

Step  up  there,  little  Fred, 

And,  Charley,  have  a  mind! 
Jim  is  as  far  ahead 

As  you  two  are  behind! 
Ready  with  gun  and  sword 

Your  valorous  work  to  do — 
Yonder  the  Injun  horde 

Are  lying  in  wait  for  you. 
And  their  hearts  go  pitapat 

When  they  hear  the  soldiers  come 
With  a  r-r-rat-tat-tat 

And  a  tum-titty-um-tum-tum! 

Course  it 's  all  in  play! 

The  skulking  Injun  crew 
That  hustled  the  kite  away 

Are  little  white  boys,  like  you! 
But  "honest"  or  "just  in  fun," 

It  is  all  the  same  to  me; 
And,  when  the  battle  is  won, 

Home  once  again  march  we 


278  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 


With  a  r-r-rat-tat-tat 

And  tum-titty-um-tum-tum; 
And  there  's  glory  enough  in  that 

For  the  boys  with  their  little  red  drum! 


THE  DEAD  BABE 

LAST  night,  as  my  dear  babe  lay  dead, 
In  agony  I  knelt  and  said: 

"O  God!   what  have  I  done, 
Or  in  what  wise  offended  Thee, 
That  thou  shouldst  take  awa"  from  me 

My  little  son? 

"Upon  the  thousand  useless  lives, 
Upon  the  guilt  that  vaunting  thrives, 

Thy  wrath  were  better  spent! 
Why  shouldst  Thou  take  my  little  son — 
Why  shouldst  Thou  vent  Thy  wrath  upon 

This  innocent?" 

Last  night,  as  my  dear  babe  lay  dead, 
Before  mine  eyes  the  vision  spread 

Of  things  that  might  have  been: 
Licentious  riot,  cruel  strife, 
Forgotten  prayers,  a  wasted  life 

Dark-red  with  sin! 

Then,  with  sweet  music  in  the  air, 
I  saw  another  vision  there: 

A  Shepherd  in  whose  keep 
A  little  lamb— my  little  child! 
Of  worldly  wisdom  undefiled, 

Lay  fast  asleep! 

Last  night,  as  my  dear  babe  lay  dead, 
In  those  two  messages  I  read 


THE  HAPPY  HOUSEHOLD  279 

A  wisdom  manifest; 
And  though  my  arms  be  childless  now, 
I  am  content — to  Him  I  bow 

Who  knoweth  best. 


THE  HAPPY  HOUSEHOLD 

IT  's  when  the  birds  go  piping  and  the  daylight  slowly  breaks, 
That,  clamoring  for  his  dinner,  our  precious  baby  wakes; 
Then  it 's  sleep  no  more  for  baby,  and  it 's  sleep  no  more  for  me, 
For,  when  he  wants  his  dinner,  why  it  's  dinner  it  must  be! 
And  of  that  lacteal  fluid  he  partakes  with  great  ado, 

While  gran'ma  laughs, 

And  gran' pa  laughs, 

And  wife,  she  laughs, 

And  I — well,  7  laugh,  too! 

You  'd  think,  to  see  us  carrying  on  about  that  little  tad, 
That,  like  as  not,  that  baby  was  the  first  we  'd  ever  had; 
But,  sakes  alive!   he  is  n't,  yet  we  people  make  a  fuss 
As  if  the  only  baby  in  the  world  had  come  to  us! 
And,  morning,  noon,  and  night-time,  whatever  he  may  do, 

Gran'ma,  she  laughs, 

Gran'pa,  he  laughs, 

Wife,  she  laughs, 

And  I,  of  course,  laugh,  too! 

But  once — a  likely  spell  ago — when  that  poor  little  chick 
From  teething  or  from  some  such  ill  of  infancy  fell  sick, 
You  would  n't  know  us  people  as  the  same  that  went  about 
A-feelin'  good  all  over,  just  to  hear  him  crow  and  shout; 
And,  though  the  doctor  poohed  our  fears  and  said  he  'd  pull  him 
through, 

Old  gran'ma  cried, 

And  gran' pa  cried, 

And  wife,  she  cried, 

And  I — yes,  /  cried,  too! 


280  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

It  makes  us  all  feel  good  to  have  a  baby  on  the  place, 

With  his  everlastin'  crowing  and  his  dimpling,  dumpling  face; 

The  patter  of  his  pinky  feet  makes  music  everywhere, 

And  when  he  shakes  those  fists  of  his,  good-by  to  every  care! 

No  matter  what  our  trouble  is,  when  he  begins  to  coo, 

Old  gran'ma  laughs, 

And  gran' pa  laughs, 

Wife,  she  laughs, 

And  I — you  bet,  I  laugh,  too! 


SO,  SO,  ROCK-A-BY  SO! 

So,  so,  rock-a-by  so! 

Off  to  the  garden  where  dreamikins  grow; 

And  here  is  a  kiss  on  your  winkyblink  eyes, 

And  here  is  a  kiss  on  your  dimpledown  cheek, 
And  here  is  a  kiss  for  the  treasure  that  lies 
In  the  beautiful  garden  'way  up  in  the  skies 

Which  you  seek. 

Now  mind  these  three  kisses  wherever  you  go — 
So,  so,  rock-a-by  so! 

There  's  one  little  fumfay  who  lives  there,  I  know, 
For  he  dances  all  night  where  the  dreamikins  grow 
I  send  him  this  kiss  on  your  droopydrop  eyes, 

I  send  him  this  kiss  on  your  rosyred  cheek. 
And  here  is  a  kiss  for  the  dream  that  shall  rise 
When  the  fumfay  shall  dance  in  those  far-away  skies 

Which  you  seek. 

Be  sure  that  you  pay  those  three  kisses  you  owe — 
So,  so,  rock-a-by  so! 

And,  by-low,  as  you  rock-a-by  go, 
Don't  forget  mother  who  loveth  you  so! 
And  here  is  her  kiss  on  your  weepydeep  eyes, 
And  here  is  her  kiss  on  your  peachypink  cheek, 


THE   SONG   OF   LUDDY-DUD  281 

And  here  is  her  kiss  for  the  dreamland  that  lies 
Like  a  babe  on  the  breast  of  those  far-away  skies 

Which  you  seek — 

The  blinkywink  garden  where  dreamikins  grow — 
So,  so,  rock-a-by  so! 


THE  SONG  OF  LUDDY-DUD 

A  SUNBEAM  comes  a-creeping 

Into  my  dear  one's  nest, 
And  sings  to  our  babe  a-sleeping 
The  song  that  I  love  the  best: 

"'T  is  little  Luddy-Dud  in  the  morning — 
'T  is  little  Luddy-Dud  at  night; 
And  all  day  long 
'T  is  the  same  sweet  song 
Of  that  waddling,  toddling,  coddling  little  mite,  Luddy-Dud/ 

The  bird  to  the  tossing  clover, 
The  bee  to  the  swaying  bud, 
Keep  singing  that  sweet  song  over 
Of  wee  little  Luddy-Dud. 

"  'T  is  little  Luddy-Dud  in  the  morning — 
'T  is  little  Luddy-Dud  at  night; 
And  all  day  long 
'T  is  the  same  dear  song 
Of  that  growing,  crowing,  knowing  little  sprite,  Luddy-Dud." 

Luddy-Dud's  cradle  is  swinging 

Where  softly  the  night  winds  blow, 
And  Luddy-Dud's  mother  is  singing 
A  song  that  is  sweet  and  low; 

"  "T  is  little  Luddy-Dud  in  the  morning — 
'T  is  little  Luddy-Dud  at  night; 
And  all  day  long 
'T  is  the  same  sweet  song 
Of  my  nearest  and  my  dearest  heart's  delight,  Luddy-Dud!" 


282  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 


THE  DUEL 

THE  gingham  dog  and  the  calico  cat 

Side  by  side  on  the  table  sat; 

'T  was  half-past  twelve,  and  (what  do  you  think!) 

Nor  one  nor  t'  other  had  slept  a  wink! 

The  old  Dutch  clock  and  the  Chinese  plate 
Appeared  to  know  a§_&ure_as  fate 
There  was  going  to  be  a  terrible  spat. 

(7  was  n't  there;  I  simply  state 

What  was  told  to  me  by  the  Chinese  plate!) 

The  gingham  dog  went  "Bow-wow-wow!" 
And  the  calico  cat  replied  "Mee-ow!" 
The  air  was  littered,  an  hour  or  so, 
With  bits  of  gingham  and  calico, 

While  the  old  Dutch  clock  in  the  chimney-place 
Up  with  its  hands  before  its  face, 
For  it  always  dreaded  a  family  row! 

(Now  mind:   I  'm  only  telling  you 

What  the  old  Dutch  clock  declares  is  true!) 

The  Chinese  plate  looked  very  blue, 
And  wailed,  "Oh,  dear!  what  shall  we  do!v 
But  the  gingham  dog  and  the  calico  cat 
Wallowed  this  way  and  tumbled  that, 
Employing  every  tooth  and  claw 
In  the  awfullest  way  you  ever  saw — 
And,  oh!  how  the  gingham  and  calico  flew! 
(Don't  fancy  I  exaggerate — 
I  got  my  news  from  the  Chinese  plate!) 

Next  morning,  where  the  two  had  sat 
They  found  no  trace  of  dog  or  cat; 
And  some  folks  think  unto  this  day 
That  burglars  stole  that  pair  away! 

But  the  truth  about  the  cat  and  pup 


GOOD-CHILDREN   STREET  283 

Is  this:   they  ate  each  other  up! 
Now  what  do  you  really  think  of  that! 

(The  old  Dutch  clock, it  told  me  so, 
And  that  is  how  I  came  to  know.) 


GOOD-CHILDREN    STREET 

THERE  's  a  dear  little  home  in  Good-Children  street- 

My  heart  turneth  fondly  to-day 
Where  tinkle  of  tongues  and  patter  of  feet 

Make  sweetest  of  music  at  play; 
Where  the  sunshine  of  love  illumines  each  face 
And  warms  every  heart  in  that  old-fashioned  place. 

For  dear  little  children  go  romping  about 

With  dollies  and  tin  tops  and  drums, 
And,  my!   how  they  frolic  and  scamper  and  shout 

Till  bedtime  too  speedily  comes! 
Oh,  days  they  are  golden  and  days  they  are  fleet 
With  little  folk  living  in  Good-Children  street. 

See,  here  comes  an  army  with  guns  painted  red, 
And  swords,  caps,  and  plumes  of  all  sorts; 

The  captain  rides  gayly  and  proudly  ahead 
On  a  stick-horse  that  prances  and  snorts! 

Oh,  legions  of  soldiers  you  're  certain  to  meet — 

Nice  make-believe  soldiers — in  Good-Children  street. 

And  yonder  Odette  wheels  her  dolly  about — 

Poor  dolly!   I  'm  sure  she  is  ill, 
For  one  of  her  blue  china  eyes  has  dropped  out 

And  her  voice  is  asthmatic' ly  shrill. 
Then,  too,  I  observe  she  is  minus  her  feet, 
Which  causes  much  sorrow  in  Good-Children  street. 

'T  is  so  the  dear  children  go  romping  about 
With  dollies  and  banners  and  drums, 


284  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

And  I  venture  to  say  they  are  sadly  put  out 

When  an  end  to  their  jubilee  comes: 
Oh,  days  they  are  golden  and  days  they  are  fleet 
With  little  folk  living  in  Good-Children  street! 

But  when  falleth  night  over  river  and  town, 

Those  little  folk  vanish  from  sight, 
And  an  angel  all  white  from  the  sky  cometh  down 

And  guardeth  the  babes  through  the  night, 
And  singeth  her  lullabies  tender  and  sweet 
To  the  dear  little  people  in  Good-Children  street. 

Though  elsewhere  the  world  be  o'erburdened  with  care, 

Though  poverty  fall  to  my  lot, 
Though  toil  and  vexation  be  always  my  share, 

What  care  I — they  trouble  me  not! 
This  thought  maketh  life  ever  joyous  and  sweet: 
There  's  a  dear  little  home  in  Good-Children  street. 


THE  DELECTABLE  BALLAD  OF  THE  WALLER  LOT 

UP  yonder  in  Buena  Park 

There  is  a  famous  spot, 
In  legend  and  in  history 

Yclept  the  Waller  Lot. 

There  children  play  in  daytime 

And  lovers  stroll  by  dark, 
For  't  is  the  goodliest  trysting-place 

In  all  Buena  Park. 

Once  on  a  time  that  beauteous  maid, 

Sweet  little  Sissy  Knott, 
Took  out  her  pretty  doll  to  walk 

Within  the  Waller  Lot. 


THE   DELECTABLE    BALLAD    OF   THE    WALLER    LOT        285 

While  thus  she  fared,  from  Ravenswood 

Came  Injuns  o'er  the  plain, 
And  seized  upon  that  beauteous  maid 

And  rent  her  doll  in  twain. 

Oh,  't  was  a  piteous  thing  to  hear 

Her  lamentations  wild; 
She  tore  her  golden  curls  and  cried: 

"My  child!    My  child!    My  child!" 

Alas,  what  cared  those  Injun  chiefs 

How  bitterly  wailed  she? 
They  never  had  been  mothers, 

And  they  could  not  hope  to  be! 

"Have  done  with  tears,"  they  rudely  quoth, 

And  then  they  bound  her  hands; 
For  they  proposed  to  take  her  off 

To  distant  border  lands. 

But,  joy!   from  Mr.  Eddy's  barn 

Doth  Willie  Clow  behold 
The  sight  that  makes  his  hair  rise  up 

And  all  his  blood  run  cold. 

He  put  his  fingers  in  his  mouth 

And  whistled  long  and  clear, 
And  presently  a  goodly  horde 

Of  cowboys  did  appear. 

Cried  Willie  Clow:     "My  comrades  bold, 

Haste  to  the  Waller  Lot, 
And  rescue  from  that  Injun  band 

Our  charming  Sissy  Knott! 

"Spare  neither  Injun  buck  nor  squaw, 

But  smite  them  hide  and  hair! 
Spare  neither  sex  nor  age  nor  size, 

And  no  condition  spare!" 


286  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

Then  sped  that  cowboy  band  away, 
Full  of  revengeful  wrath, 

And  Kendall  Evans  rode  ahead 
Upon  a  hickory  lath. 

And  next  came  gallant  Dady  Field 
And  Willie's  brother  Kent, 

The  Eddy  boys  and  Robbie  James, 
On  murderous  purpose  bent. 

For  they  were  much  beholden  to 
That  maid — in  sooth,  the  lot 

Were  very,  very  much  in  love 
With  charming  Sissy  Knott. 

What  wonder?     She  was  beauty's  queen. 

And  good  beyond  compare; 
Moreover,  it  was  known  she  was 

Her  wealthy  father's  heir! 

Now  when  the  Injuns  saw  that  band 
They  trembled  with  affright, 

And  yet  they  thought  the  cheapest  thing 
To  do  was  stay  and  fight. 

So  sturdily  they  stood  their  ground, 
Nor  would  their  prisoner  yield, 

Despite  the  wrath  of  Willie  Clow 
And  gallant  Dady  Field. 

Oh,  never  fiercer  battle  raged 

Upon  the  Waller  Lot, 
And  never  blood  more  freely  flowed 

Than  flowed  for  Sissy  Knott! 

An  Injun  chief  of  monstrous  size 
Got  Kendall  Evans  down, 

And  Robbie  James  was  soon  o'erthrown 
By  one  of  great  renown. 


THE   DELECTABLE    BALLAD    OF   THE    WALLER    LOT        287 

And  Dady  Field  was  sorely  done, 

And  Willie  Clow  was  hurt, 
And  all  that  gallant  cowboy  band 

Lay  wallowing  in  the  dirt. 

But  still  they  strove  with  might  and  main 

Till  all  the  Waller  Lot 
Was  strewn  with  hair  and  gouts  of  gore — 

All,  all  for  Sissy  Knottl 

Then  cried  the  maiden  in  despair: 

"Alas,  I  sadly  fear 
The  battle  and  my  hopes  are  lost, 

Unless  some  help  appear!" 

Lo,  as  she  spoke,  she  saw  afar 

The  rescuer  looming  up — 
The  pride  of  all  Buena  Park, 

Clow's  famous  yellow  pup! 

"Now,  sick  'em,  Don,"  the  maiden  cried; 

"Now,  sick  'em,  Don!"  cried  she; 
Obedient  Don  at  once  complied — 

As  ordered,  so  did  he. 

He  sicked  'em  all  so  passing  well 

That,  overcome  by  fright, 
The  Indian  horde  gave  up  the  fray 

And  safety  sought  in  flight. 

They  ran  and  ran  and  ran  and  ran 

O'er  valley,  plain,  and  hill; 
And  if  they  are  not  walking  now, 

Why,  then,  they  're  running  still. 

The  cowboys  rose  up  from  the  dust 

With  faces  black  and  blue; 
"Remember,  beauteous  maid,"  said  they, 

"We  've  bled  and  died  for  you! 


288  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 

"And  though  we  suffer  grievously, 

We  gladly  hail  the  lot 
That  brings  us  toils  and  pains  and  wounds 

For  charming  Sissy  Knott!" 

But  Sissy  Knott  still  wailed  and  wept, 

And  still  her  fate  reviled; 
For  who  could  patch  her  dolly  up — 

Who,  who  could  mend  her  child? 

Then  out  her  doting  mother  came, 
And  soothed  her  daughter  then; 

"Grieve  not,  my  darling,  I  will  sew 
Your  dolly  up  again!" 

Joy  soon  succeeded  unto  grief, 
And  tears  were  soon  dried  up, 

And  dignities  were  heaped  upon 
Clow's  noble  yellow  pup. 

Him  all  that  goodly  company 

Did  as  deliverer  hail — 
They  tied  a  ribbon  round  his  neck, 

Another  round  his  tail. 

And  every  anniversary  day 

Upon  the  Waller  Lot 
They  celebrate  the  victory  won 

For  charming  Sissy  Knott. 

And  I,  the  poet  of  these  folk, 

Am  ordered  to  compile 
This  truly  famous  history 

In  good  old  ballad  style. 

Which  having  done  as  to  have  earned 
The  sweet  rewards  of  fame, 

In  what  same  style  I  did  begin 
I  now  shall  end  the  same. 


THE   STORK  289 

So  let  us  sing:     Long  live  the  King, 

Long  live  the  Queen  and  Jack, 
Long  live  the  ten-spot  and  the  ace, 

And  also  all  the  pack. 


THE  STORK 

LAST  night  the  Stork  came  stalking, 

And,  Stork,  beneath  your  wing 
Lay,  lapped  in  dreamless  slumber, 

The  tiniest  little  thing! 
From  Babyland,  out  yonder 

Beside  a  silver  sea, 
You  brought  a  priceless  treasure 

As  gift  to  mine  and  me! 

Last  night  my  dear  one  listened — 

And,  wife,  you  knew  the  cry — 
The  dear  old  Stork  has  sought  our  home 

A  many  times  gone  by! 
And  in  your  gentle  bosom 

I  found  the  pretty  thing 
That  from  the  realm  out  yonder 

Our  friend  the  Stork  did  bring. 

Last  night  a  babe  awakened, 

And,  babe,  how  strange  and  new 
Must  seem  the  home  and  people 

The  Stork  has  brought  you  to; 
And  yet  methinks  you  like  them — 

You  neither  stare  nor  weep, 
But  closer  to  my  dear  one 

You  cuddle,  and  you  sleep! 

Last  night  my  heart  grew  fonder — 

O  happy  heart  of  mine, 
Sing  of  the  inspirations 

That  round  my  pathway  shine! 


290  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

And  sing  your  sweetest  love-song 
To  this  dear  nestling  wee 

The  Stork  from  'Way-Out-Yonder 
Hath  brought  to  mine  and  me! 


THE  BOTTLE-TREE 

A  BOTTLE-TREE  bloometh  in  Winkyway  land — 

Heigh-ho  for  a  bottle,  I  say! 
A  snug  little  berth  in  that  ship  I  demand 

That  rocketh  the  Bottle-Tree  babies  away 

Where  the  Bottle-Tree  bloometh  by  night  and  by  day 
And  reacheth  its  fruit  to  each  wee,  dimpled  hand; 

You  take  of  that  fruit  as  much  as  you  list, 

For  colic  's  a  nuisance  that  doesn't  exist! 
So  cuddle  me  close,  and  cuddle  me  fast, 

And  cuddle  me  snug  in  my  cradle  away, 
For  I  hunger  and  thirst  for  that  precious  repast — 

Heigho-ho  for  a  bottle,  I  say! 

The  Bottle-Tree  bloometh  by  night  and  by  day! 

Heigh-ho  for  Winkyway  land! 
And  Bottle-Tree  fruit  (as  I  've  heard  people  say) 

Makes  bellies  of  Bottle-Tree  babies  expand — 

And  that  is  a  trick  I  would  fain  understand! 
Heigh-ho  for  a  bottle  to-day! 

And  heigh-ho  for  a  bottle  to-night — 

A  bottle  of  milk  that  is  creamy  and  white! 
So  cuddle  me  close,  and  cuddle  me  fast, 

And  cuddle  me  snug  in  my  cradle  away, 
For  I  hunger  and  thirst  for  that  precious  repast— 

Heigh-ho  for  a  bottle,  I  say! 


GOOGLY-GOO  291 


GOOGLY-GOO 

OF  mornings,  bright  and  early, 

When  the  lark  is  on  the  wing 
And  the  robin  in  the  maple 

Hops  from  her  nest  to  sing, 
From  yonder  cheery  chamber 

Cometh  a  mellow  coo — 
JT  is  the  sweet,  persuasive  treble 

Of  my  little  Googly-Goo! 

The  sunbeams  hear  his  music, 

And  they  seek  his  little  bed, 
And  they  dance  their  prettiest  dances 

Round  his  golden  curly  head: 
Schottisches,  galops,  minuets, 

Gavottes  and  waltzes,  too, 
Dance  they  unto  the  music 

Of  my  googling  Googly-Goo. 

My  heart — my  heart  it  leapeth 

To  hear  that  treble  tone; 
What  music  like  thy  music, 

My  darling  and  mine  own! 
And  patiently — yes,  cheerfully 

I  toil  the  long  day  through — 
My  labor  seemeth  lightened 

By  the  song  of  Googly-Goo! 

I  may  not  see  his  antics, 

Nor  kiss  his  dimpled  cheek: 
I  may  not  smooth  the  tresses 

The  sunbeams  love  to  seek; 
It  mattereth  not — the  echo 

Of  his  sweet,  persuasive  coo 
Recurreth  to  remind  me 

Of  my  little  Googly-Goo. 


292  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

And  when  I  come  at  evening, 

I  stand  without  the  door 
And  patiently  I  listen 

For  that  dear  sound  once  more; 
And  oftentimes  I  wonder, 

"Oh,  God!  what  should  I  do 
If  any  ill  should  happen 

To  my  little  Googly-Goo!" 

Then  in  affright  I  call  him — 

I  hear  his  gleeful  shouts! 
Begone,  ye  dread  forebodings — 

Begone,  ye  killing  doubts! 
For,  with  my  arms  about  him, 

My  heart  warms  through  and  through 
With  the  oogling  and  the  googling 

Of  my  little  Googly-Goo! 


THE   BENCH-LEGGED  FYCE 

SPEAKIN'  of  dorgs,  my  bench-legged  fyce 
Hed  most  o'  the  virtues,  an'  nary  a  vice. 
Some  folks  called  him  Sooner,  a  name  that  arose 
From  his  predisposition  to  chronic  repose; 
But,  rouse  his  ambition,  he  couldn't  be  beat — 
Yer  bet  yer  he  got  thar  on  all  his  four  feet! 

Mos'  dorgs  hez  some  forte — like  huntin'  an'  such, 
But  the  sports  o'  the  field  didn't  bother  him  much; 
Wuz  just  a  plain  dorg,  an'  contented  to  be 
On  peaceable  terms  with  the  neighbors  an'  me; 
Used  to  fiddle  an'  squirm,  and  grunt  "Oh,  how  nice!" 
When  I  tickled  the  back  of  that  bench-legged  fyce! 

He  wuz  long  in  the  bar'l,  like  a  fyce  oughter  be; 

His  color  wuz  yaller  as  ever  you  see; 

His  tail,  curlin'  upward,  wuz  long,  loose,  an'  slim — 


THE    BENCH-LEGGED   FYCE  293 

When  he  didn't  wag  it,  why,  the  tail  it  wagged  him! 
His  legs  wuz  so  crooked,  my  bench-legged  pup 
Wuz  as  tall  settin'  down  as  he  wuz  standin'  up! 

He  'd  lie  by  the  stove  of  a  night  an'  regret 

The  various  vittles  an'  things  he  had  et; 

When  a  stranger,  most  likely  a  tramp,  come  along, 

He  'd  lift  up  his  voice  in  significant  song — 

You  wondered,  by  gum!   how  there  ever  wuz  space 

In  that  bosom  o'  his'n  to  hold  so  much  bass! 

Of  daytimes  he  'd  sneak  to  the  road  an'  lie  down, 

An'  tackle  the  country  dorgs  comin'  to  town; 

By  common  consent  he  wuz  boss  in  St.  Jo, 

For  what  he  took  hold  of  he  never  let  go! 

An'  a  dude  that  come  courtin'  our  girl  left  a  slice 

Of  his  white  flannel  suit  with  our  bench-legged  fyce! 

He  wuz  good  to  us  kids — when  we  pulled  at  his  fur 

Or  twisted  his  tail  he  would  never  demur; 

He  seemed  to  enjoy  all  our  play  an'  our  chaff, 

For  his  tongue  'u'd  hang  out  an'  he  'd  laff  an'  he'd  laff; 

An'  once,  when  the  Hobart  boy  fell  through  the  ice, 

He  wuz  drug  clean  ashore  by  that  bench-legged  fyce! 

We  all  hev  our  choice,  an'  you,  like  the  rest, 
Allow  that  the  dorg  which  you  've  got  is  the  best; 
I  wouldn't  give  much  for  the  boy  'at  grows  up 
With  no  friendship  subsistin'  'tween  him  an'  a  pup! 
Wlien  a  fellow  gits  old — I  tell  you  it 's  nice 
To  think  of  his  youth  and  his  bench-legged  fyce! 

To  think  of  the  springtime  'way  back  in  St.  Jo — 
Of  the  peach-trees  abloom  an'  the  daises  ablow; 
To  think  of  the  play  in  the  medder  an'  grove, 
When  little  legs  wrassled  an'  little  han's  strove; 
To  think  of  the  loyalty,  valor,  an'  truth 
Of  the  friendships  that  hallow  the  season  of  youth! 


294  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 


LITTLE  MISS  BRAG 

LITTLE  Miss  Brag  has  much  to  say 
To  the  rich  little  lady  from  over  the  way, 
And  the  rich  little  lady  puts  out  a  lip 
As  she  looks  at  her  own  white,  dainty  slip, 
And  wishes  that  she  could  wear  a  gown 
As  pretty  as  gingham  of  faded  brown! 
For  little  Miss  Brag  she  lays  much  stress 
On  the  privileges  of  a  gingham  dress — 

"Aha, 

Oho!" 

The  rich  little  lady  from  over  the  way 
Has  beautiful  dolls  in  vast  array; 
Yet  she  envies  the  raggedy  home-made  doll 
She  hears  our  little  Miss  Brag  extol. 
For  the  raggedy  doll  can  fear  no  hurt 
From  wet,  or  heat,  or  tumble,  or  dirt! 
Her  nose  is  inked,  and  her  mouth  is,  too, 
And  one  eye  's  black  and  the  other  's  blue — 

"Aha, 

Oho!" 

The  rich  little  lady  goes  out  to  ride 
With  footmen  standing  up  outside, 
Yet  wishes  that,  sometimes,  after  dark 
Her  father  would  trundle  her  in  the  park; — 
That,  sometimes,  her  mother  would  sing  the  things 
Little  Miss  Brag  says  her  mother  sings 
When  through  the  attic  window  streams 
The  moonlight  full  of  golden  dreams — 

"Aha, 

Oho!" 

Yes,  little  Miss  Brag  has  much  to  say 
To  the  rich  little  lady  from  over  the  way; 
And  yet  who  knows  but  from  her  heart 
Often  the  bitter  sighs  upstart — 


THE    HUMMING    TOP 

Uprise  to  lose  their  burn  and  sting 

In  the  grace  of  the  tongue  that  loves  to  sing 

Praise  of  the  treasures  all  its  ownl 

So  I  've  come  to  love  that  treble  tone — 

"Aha, 

Oho!" 


THE  HUMMING  TOP 

THE  top  it  hummeth  a  sweet,  sweet  song 

To  my  dear  little  boy  at  play — 
Merrily  singeth  all  day  long, 

As  it  spinneth  and  spinneth  away. 

And  my  dear  little  boy 

He  laugheth  with  joy 
When  he  heareth  the  monotone 

Of  that  busy  thing 

That  loveth  to  sing 
The  song  that  is  all  its  own. 

Hold  fast  the  string  and  wind  it  tight, 

That  the  song  be  loud  and  clear; 
Now  hurl  the  top  with  all  your  might 
Upon  the  banquette  here; 

And  straight  from  the  string 

The  joyous  thing 
Boundeth  and  spinneth  along, 

And  it  whirrs  and  it  chirrs 

And  it  birrs  and  it  purrs 
Ever  its  pretty  song. 

Will  ever  my  dear  little  boy  grow  old, 

As  some  have  growrn  before? 
Will  ever  his  heart  feel  faint  and  cold, 
When  he  heareth  the  songs  of  ycre? 
Will  ever  this  toy 
Of  my  dear  little  boy, 


296  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

When  the  years  have  worn  away, 
Sing  sad  and  low 
Of  the  long  ago, 

As  it  singeth  to  me  to-day? 


LADY  BUTTON-EYES 

WHEN  the  busy  day  is  done, 
And  my  weary  little  one 
Rocketh  gently  to  and  fro; 
When  the  night  winds  softly  blow, 
And  the  crickets  in  the  glen 
Chirp  and  chirp  and  chirp  again; 
When  upon  the  haunted  green 
Fairies  dance  around  their  queen — 
Then  from  yonder  misty  skies 
Cometh  Lady  Button-Eyes. 

Through  the  murk  and  mist  and  gloam 
To  our  quiet,  cozy  home, 
Where  to  singing,  sweet  and  low, 
Rocks  a  cradle  to  and  fro; 
Where  the  clock's  dull  monotone 
Telleth  of  the  day  that 's  done; 
Where  the  moonbeams  hover  o'er 
Playthings  sleeping  on  the  floor — 
Where  my  weary  wee  one  lies 
Cometh  Lady  Button-Eyes. 

Cometh  like  a  fleeting  ghost 
From  some  distant  eerie  coast; 
Never  footfall  can  you  hear 
As  that  spirit  fareth  near — 
Never  whisper,  never  word 
From  that  shadow-queen  is  heard. 


THE    RIDE   TO    BUMPVILLE  297 

In  ethereal  raiment  dight, 
From  the  realm  of  fay  and  sprite 
In  the  depth  of  yonder  skies 
Cometh  Lady  Button-Eyes. 

Layeth  she  her  hands  upon 

My  dear  weary  little  one, 

And  those  white  hands  overspread 

Like  a  veil  the  curly  head, 

Seem  to  fondle  and  caress 

Every  little  silken  tress; 

Then  she  smooths  the  eyelids  down 

Over  those  two  eyes  of  brown — 

In  such  soothing,  tender  wise 

Cometh  Lady  Button-Eyes. 

Dearest,  feel  upon  your  brow 
That  caressing  magic  now; 
For  the  crickets  in  the  glen 
Chirp  and  chirp  and  chirp  again, 
While  upon  the  haunted  green 
Fairies  dance  around  their  queen, 
And  the  moonbeams  hover  o'er 
Playthings  sleeping  on  the  floor — 
Hush,  my  sweet!   from  yonder  skies 
Cometh  Lady  Button-Eyes! 


THE  RIDE  TO  BUMPVILLE 

PLAY  that  my  knee  was  a  calico  mare 
Saddled  and  bridled  for  Bumpville; 
Leap  to  the  back  of  this  steed,  if  you  dare, 

And  gallop  away  to  Bumpville! 
I  hope  you  '11  be  sure  to  sit  fast  in  your  seat, 
For  this  calico  mare  is  prodigiously  fleet, 
And  many  adventures  you  're  likely  to  meet 
As  you  journey  along  to  Bumpville. 


298  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 

This  calico  mare  both  gallops  and  trots 
While  whisking  you  off  to  Bumpville; 
She  paces,  she  shies,  and  she  stumbles,  in  spots. 

In  the  tortuous  road  to  Bumpville; 
And  sometimes  this  strangely  mercurial  steed 
Will  suddenly  stop  and  refuse  to  proceed, 
Which,  all  will  admit,  is  vexatious  indeed, 
When  one  is  en  route  to  Bumpville! 

She  's  scared  of  the  cars  when  the  engine  goes  "Toot! 

Down  by  the  crossing  at  Bumpville; 
You  'd  better  look  out  for  that  treacherous  brute 

Bearing  you  off  to  Bumpville! 

With  a  snort  she  rears  up  on  her  hindermost  heels, 
And  executes  jigs  and  Virginia  reels — 
Words  fail  to  explain  how  embarrassed  one  feels 

Dancing  so  wildly  to  Bumpville! 

It 's  bumpytybump  and  it 's  jiggytyjog, 

Journeying  on  to  Bumpville; 
It 's  over  the  hilltop  and  down  through  the  bog 

You  ride  on  your  way  to  Bumpville; 
It 's  rattletybang  over  boulder  and  stump, 
There  are  rivers  to  ford,  there  are  fences  to  jump, 
And  the  corduroy  road  it  goes  bumpytybump, 

Mile  after  mile  to  Bumpville! 

Perhaps  you  '11  observe  it 's  no  easy  thing 

Making  the  journey  to  Bumpville, 
So  I  think,  on  the  whole,  it  were  prudent  to  bring 

An  end  to  this  ride  to  Bumpville; 
For,  though  she  has  uttered  no  protest  or  plaint, 
The  calico  mare  must  be  blowing  and  faint — 
What 's  more  to  the  point,  I  'm  bio  wed  if  I  ain't! 

So  play  we  have  got  to  Bumpville! 


THE    BROOK  299 


THE  BROOK 

I  LOOKED  in  the  brook  and  saw  a  face — 

Heigh-ho,  but  a  child  was  I! 
There  were  rushes  and  willows  in  that  place, 

And  they  clutched  at  the  brook  as  the  brook  ran  by; 
And  the  brook  it  ran  its  own  sweet  way, 
As  a  child  doth  run  in  heedless  play, 
And  as  it  ran  I  heard  it  say: 

"  Hasten  with  me 
To  the  roistering  sea 

That  is  wroth  with  the  flame  of  the  morning  sky!" 

I  look  in  the  brook  and  see  a  face — 

Heigh-ho,  but  the  years  go  by! 
The  rushes  are  dead  in  the  old-time  place, 

And  the  willows  I  knew  when  a  child  was  I. 
And  the  brook  it  seemeth  to  me  to  say, 
As  ever  it  stealeth  on  its  way — 
Solemnly  now,  and  not  in  play: 

"Oh,  come  with  me 
To  the  slumbrous  sea 

That  is  gray  with  the  peace  of  the  evening  sky!" 

Heigh-ho,  but  the  years  go  by — 
I  would  to  God  that  a  child  were  I! 


PICNIC-TIME 

IT  's  June  ag'in,  an'  in  my  soul  I  feel  the  fillin'  joy 
That 's  sure  to  come  this  time  o'  year  to  every  little  boy; 
For,  every  June,  the  Sunday-schools  at  picnics  may  be  seen, 
Where  "fields  beyont  the  swellin'  floods  stand  dressed  in  livin' 

green"; 

Where  little  girls  are  skeered  to  death  with  spiders,  bugs,  and  ants, 
An'  little  boys  get  grass-stains  on  their  go-to-meetin'  pants. 
It 's  June  ag'in,  an'  with  it  all  what  happiness  is  mine — 
There  's  goin'  to  be  a  picnic,  an'  I  'm  goin'  to  jine! 


300  POEMS   OF  CHILDHOOD 

One  year  I  jined  the  Baptists,  an'  goodness!  how  it  rained! 
(But  granpa  says  that  that's  the  way  "baptizo"  is  explained.) 
And  once  I  jined  the  'Piscopils  an'  had  a  heap  o'  fun — 
But  the  boss  of  all  the  picnics  was  the  Presby teriun ! 
They  had  so  many  puddin's,  sallids,  sandwidges,  an'  pies, 
That  a  feller  wisht  his  stummick  was  as  hungry  as  his  eyes! 
Oh,  yes,  the  eatin'  Presbyteriuns  give  yer  is  so  fine 
That  when  they  have  a  picnic,  you  bet  I  'm  goin'  to  jine! 

But  at  this  time  the  Methodists  have  special  claims  on  me, 

For  they  're  goin'  to  give  a  picnic  on  the  21st,  D.  V,; 

Why  should  a  liberal  Universalist  like  me  object 

To  share  the  joys  of  fellowship  with  every  friendly  sect? 

However  het'rodox  their  articles  of  faith  elsewise  may  be, 

Their  doctrine  of  fried  chick'n  is  a  savin'  grace  to  me! 

So  on  the  21st  of  June,  the  weather  bein'  fine, 

They  're  goin'  to  give  a  picnic,  and  I  'm  goin'  to  jine  I 


SHUFFLE-SHOON  AND  AMBER-LOCKS 

SHUFFLE-SHOON  and  Amber-Locks 
Sit  together,  building  blocks; 

Shuffle-Shoon  is  old  and  gray, 
Amber-Locks  a  little  child, 
But  together  at  their  play 

Age  and  Youth  are  reconciled, 
And  with  sympathetic  glee 
Build  their  castles  fair  to  see. 

"When  I  grow  to  be  a  man" 
(So  the  wee  one's  prattle  ran), 
"I  shall  build  a  castle  so — 

With  a  gateway  broad  and  grand; 
Here  a  pretty  vine  shall  grow, 

There  a  soldier  guard  shall  stand; 
And  the  tower  shall  be  so  high, 
Folks  will  wonder,  by  and  by!" 


THE   SHUT-EYE   TRAIN  301 

Shuffle-Shoon  quoth:   "Yes,  I  know; 
Thus  I  builded  long  ago! 

Here  a  gate  and  there  a  wall, 

Here  a  window,  there  a  door; 
Here  a  steeple  wondrous  tall 

Riseth  ever  more  and  more! 
But  the  years  have  levelled  low 
What  I  builded  long  ago!" 

So  they  gossip  at  their  play, 
Heedless  of  the  fleeting  day; 

One  speaks  of  the  Long  Ago 

Where  his  dead  hopes  buried  lie; 
One  with  chubby  cheeks  aglow 
Prattleth  of  the  By  and  By; 
Side  by  side,  they  build  their  blocks — 
Shuffle-Shoon  and  Amber-Locks. 


THE  SHUT-EYE  TRAIN 

COME,  my  little  one,  with  me! 
There  are  wondrous  sights  to  see 

As  the  evening  shadows  fall; 

In  your  pretty  cap  and  gown, 
Don't  detain 
The  Shut-Eye  train— 

"Ting-a-ling!"    the  bell  it  goeth, 

"Toot-toot!"    the  whistle  bloweth, 
And  we  hear  the  warning  call: 
"All  aboard  for  Shut-Eye  Town!" 

Over  hill  and  over  plain 

Soon  w^ill  speed  the  Shut-Eye  train! 

Through  the  blue  where  bloom  the  stars 
And  the  Mother  Moon  looks  down 
We  '11  away 
To  land  of  Fay— 


302  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 

Oh,  the  sights  that  we  shall  see  there! 

Come,  my  little  one/  with  me  there — 
'T  is  a  goodly  train  of  cars — 
All  aboard  for  Shut-Eye  Town! 

Swifter  than  a  wild  bird's  flight, 
Through  the  realms  of  fleecy  light 

We  shall  speed  and  speed  away! 

Let  the  Night  in  envy  frown — 
What  care  we 
How  wroth  she  be! 

To  the  Balow-land  above  us, 

To  the  Balow-folk  who  love  us, 
Let  us  hasten  while  we  may— 
All  aboard  for  Shut- Eye  Town! 

Shut-Eye  Town  is  passing  fair — 
Golden  dreams  await  us  there; 

We  shall  dream  those  dreams,  my  dear, 
Till  the  Mother  Moon  goes  down — 
See  unfold 
Delights  untold! 
And  in  those  mysterious  places 
We  shall  see  beloved  faces 
And  beloved  voices  hear 
In  the  grace  of  Shut-Eye  Town. 

Heavy  are  your  eyes,  my  sweet, 

Weary  are  your  little  feet — 
Nestle  closer  up  to  me 
In  your  pretty  cap  and  gown; 
Don't  detain 
The  Shut-Eye  train! 
"Ting-a-lingI"    the  bell  it  goeth, 
"Toot-toot!"    the  whistle  bloweth — 

Oh,  the  sights  that  we  shall  see! 

All  aboard  for  Shut-Eye  Town! 


LITTLE-OH-DEAR  303 


LITTLE-OH-DEAR 

SEE,  what  a  wonderful  garden  is  here, 
Planted  and  trimmed  for  my  Little-Oh-Dear! 
Posies  so  gaudy  and  grass  of  such  brown — 
Search  ye  the  country  and  hunt  ye  the  town 
And  never  ye  '11  meet  with  a  garden  so  queer 
As  this  one  I  've  made  for  my  Little-Oh-Dearl 

Marigolds  white  and  buttercups  blue, 
Lilies  all  dabbled  with  honey  and  dew, 
The  cactus  that  trails  over  trellis  and  wall, 
Roses  and  pansies  and  violets — all 
Make  proper  obeisance  and  reverent  cheer 
When  into  her  garden  steps  Little-Oh-Dear. 

And  up  at  the  top  of  that  lavender-tree 

A  silver-bird  singeth  as  only  can  she; 

For,  ever  and  only,  she  singeth  the  song 

"I  love  you — I  love  you!"    the  happy  day  long; — 

Then  the  echo — the  echo  that  smiteth  me  here! 

"I  love  you,  I  love  you,"  my  Little-Oh-Dear! 

The  garden  may  wither,  the  silver-bird  fly — 

But  what  careth  my  little  precious,  or  I  ? 

From  her  pathway  of  flowers  that  in  springtime  upstart 

She  walketh  the  tenderer  way  in  my  heart; 

And,  oh,  it  is  always  the  summer-time  here 

With  that  song  of '"I  love  you,"  my  Little-Oh-Dear! 


THE  FLY-AWAY  HORSE 

OH,  a  wonderful  horse  is  the  Fly-Away  Horse — 
Perhaps  you  have  seen  him  before; 

Perhaps,  while  you  slept,  his  shadow  has  swept 
Through  the  moonlight  that  floats  on  the  floor. 


304  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

For  it 's  only  at  night,  when  the  stars  twinkle  bright, 

That  the  Fly-Away  Horse,  with  a  neigh 
And  a  pull  at  his  rein  and  a  toss  of  his  mane, 
Is  up  on  his  heels  and  away! 
The  Moon  in  the  sky, 
As  he  gallopeth  by, 

Cries:     "Oh!   what  a  marvellous  sight!" 
And  the  Stars  in  dismay 
Hide  their  faces  away 
In  the  lap  of  old  Grandmother  Night. 

It  is  yonder,  out  yonder,  the  Fly-Away  Horse 

Speedeth  ever  and  ever  away — 
Over  meadows  and  lanes,  over  mountains  and  plains, 

Over  streamlets  that  sing  at  their  play; 
And  over  the  sea  like  a  ghost  sweepeth  he, 

While  the  ships  they  go  sailing  below, 
And  he  speedeth  so  fast  that  the  men  at  the  mast 
Adjudge  him  some  portent  of  woe. 
"What  ho  there!"    they  cry, 
As  he  flourishes  by 
With  a  whisk  of  his  beautiful  tail; 
And  the  fish  in  the  sea 
Are  as  scared  as  can  be, 
From  the  nautilus  up  to  the  whale! 

And  the  Fly-Away  Horse  seeks  those  far-away  lands 

You  little  folk  dream  of  at  night — 
Where  candy-trees  grow,  and  honey-brooks  flow, 

And  corn-fields  with  popcorn  are  white; 
And  the  beasts  in  the  wood  are  ever  so  good 

To  children  who  visit  them  there — 
What  glory  astride  of  a  lion  to  ride, 
Or  to  wrestle  around  with  a  bear! 
The  monkeys,  they  say: 
"Come  on,  let  us  play," 
And  they  frisk  in  the  cocoanut-trees : 
While  the  parrots,  that  cling 
To  the  peanut-vines,  sing 
Or  converse  with  comparative  ease! 


SWING    HIGH    AND    SWING    LOW  305 

Off!   scamper  to  bed — you  shall  ride  him  to-night! 

For,  as  soon  as  you  've  fallen  asleep, 
With  a  jubilant  neigh  he  shall  bear  you  away 

Over  forest  and  hillside  and  deep! 
But  tell  us,  my  dear,  all  you  see  and  you  hear 

In  those  beautiful  lands  over  there, 
Where  the  Fly-Away  Horse  wings  his  far-away  course 
With  the  wee  one  consigned  to  his  care. 
Then  grandma  will  cry 
In  amazement:     "Oh,  my!" 
And  she  '11  think  it  could  never  be  so; 
And  only  we  two 
Shall  know  it  is  true — 
You  and  I,  little  precious!   shall  know! 


SWING  HIGH  AND  SWING  LOW 

SWING  high  and  swing  low 

Wrhile  the  breezes  they  blow- 
It  's  off  for  a  sailor  thy  father  would  go; 
And  it 's  here  in  the  harbor,  in  sight  of  the  sea, 
He  hath  left  his  wee  babe  with  my  song  and  with  me: 

"  Swing  high  and  swing  low 

While  the  breezes  they  blow!" 

Swing  high  and  swing  low 

While  the  breezes  they  blow — 
It 's  oh  for  the  waiting  as  weary  days  go ! 
And  it 's  oh  for  the  heartache  that  smiteth  me  when 
I  sing  my  song  over  and  over  again: 

"Swing  high  and  swing  low 

While  the  breezes  they  blow!" 

"Swing  high  and  swing  low" — 
The  sea  singeth  so, 
And  it  waileth  anon  in  its  ebb  and  its  flow; 


306  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

And  a  sleeper  sleeps  on  to  that  song  of  the  sea 
Nor  recketh  he  ever  of  mine  or  of  me! 
"Swing  high  and  swing  low 
While  the  breezes  they  blow — 
'  T  was  off  for  a  sailor  thy  father  would  go ! " 


WHEN  I  WAS  A  BOY 

UP  in  the  attic  where  I  slept 

WThen  I  was  a  boy,  a  little  boy, 
In  through  the  lattice  the  moonlight  crept, 
Bringing  a  tide  of  dreams  that  swept 
Over  the  low,  red  trundle-bed, 
Bathing  the  tangled  curly  head, 
While  moonbeams  played  at  hide-and-seek 
With  the  dimples  on  the  sun-browned  cheek — 
When  I  was  a  boy,  a  little  boy! 

And,  oh!   the  dreams — the  dreams  I  dreamed! 

When  I  was  a  boy,  a  little  boy! 
For  the  grace  that  through  the  lattice  streamed 
Over  my  folded  eyelids  seemed 
To  have  the  gift  of  prophecy, 
And  to  bring  me  glimpses  of  times  to  be 
When  manhood's  clarion  seemed  to  call — 
Ah!   that  was  the  sweetest  dream  of  all, 
When  I  was  a  boy,  a  little  boy! 

I  'd  like  to  sleep  where  I  used  to  sleep 

When  I  was  a  boy,  a  little  boy! 
For  in  at  the  lattice  the  moon  would  peep, 
Bringing  her  tide  of  dreams  to  sweep 
The  crosses  and  griefs  of  the  years  away 
From  the  heart  that  is  weary  and  faint  to-day; 
And  those  dreams  should  give  me  back  again 
A  peace  I  have  never  known  since  then — 

When  I  was  a  boy,  a  little  boy! 


AT    PLAY  307 


AT  PLAY 

PLAY  that  you  are  mother  dear, 

And  play  that  papa  is  your  beau; 
Play  that  we  sit  in  the  corner  here, 

Just  as  we  used  to,  long  ago. 
Playing  so,  we  lovers  two 

Are  just  as  happy  as  we  can  be, 
And  I  '11  say  "I  love  you"  to  you, 

And  you  say  "I  love  you"  to  me! 
"I  love  you"  we  both  shall  say, 
All  in  earnest  and  all  in  play. 

Or,  play  that  you  are  that  other  one 

That  some  time  came,  and  went  away; 
And  play  that  the  light  of  years  agone 

Stole  into  my  heart  again  to-day! 
Playing  that  you  are  the  one  I  knew 

In  the  days  that  never  again  may  be, 
I  '11  say  "I  love  you"  to  you, 

And  you  say  "I  love  you"  to  me! 
"I  love  you!"   my  heart  shall  say 
To  the  ghost  of  the  past  come  back  to-day! 

Or,  play  that  you  sought  this  nestling-place 

For  your  own  sweet  self,  with  that  dual  guise 
Of  your  pretty  mother  in  your  face 

And  the  look  of  that  other  in  your  eyes! 
So  the  dear  old  loves  shall  live  anew 

As  I  hold  my  darling  on  my  knee, 
And  I  '11  say  "I  love  you"  to  you, 

And  you  say  "I  love  you"  to  me! 
Oh,  many  a  strange,  true  thing  we  say 
And  do  when  we  pretend  to  play, 


308  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 


A  VALENTINE 

Go,  Cupid,  and  my  sweetheart  tell 

I  love  her  well. 

Yes,  though  she  tramples  on  my  heart 

And  rends  that  bleeding  thing  apart; 

And  though  she  rolls  a  scornful  eye 

On  doting  me  when  I  go  by; 

And  though  she  scouts  at  everything 

As  tribute  unto  her  I  bring — 

Apple,  banana,  caramel, — 

Haste,  Cupid,  to  my  love  and  tell, 

In  spite  of  all,  I  love  her  well! 

And  further  say  I  have  a  sled 
Cushioned  in  blue  and  painted  red! 
The  groceryman  has  promised  I 
Can  "hitch"    whenever  he  goes  by — 
Go,  tell  her  that,  and,  furthermore, 
Apprise  my  sweetheart  that  a  score 
Of  other  little  girls  implore 
The  boon  of  riding  on  that  sled 
Painted  and  hitched,  as  aforesaid; — 
And  tell  her,  Cupid,  only  she 
Shall  ride  upon  that  sled  with  me! 
Tell  her  this  all,  and  further  tell 
I  love  her  well. 


LITTLE  ALL-ALONEY 

LITTLE  ALL-ALONEY' s  feet 
Pitter-patter  in  the  hall, 
And  his  mother  runs  to  meet 
And  to  kiss  her  toddling  sweet^ 
Ere  perchance  he  fall. 


LITTLE    ALL-ALONEY  309 

He  is,  oh,  so  weak  and  small! 

Yet  what  danger  shall  he  fear 

When  his  mother  hovereth  near, 
And  he  hears  her  cheering  call: 
"All-Aloney"? 

Little  All-Aloney's  face 

It  is  all  aglow  with  glee, 
As  around  that  romping-place 
At  a  terrifying  pace 

Lungeth,  plungeth  he! 
And  that  hero  seems  to  be 

All  unconscious  of  our  cheers — 

Only  one  dear  voice  he  hears 
Calling  reassuringly: 

"  All-Aloney !" 

Though  his  legs  bend  with  their  load, 

Though  his  feet  they  seem  so  small 
That  you  cannot  help  forebode 
Some  disastrous  episode 

In  that  noisy  hall, 
Neither  threatening  bump  nor  fall 

Little  All-Aloney  fears, 

But  with  sweet  bravado  steers 
Whither  comes  that  cheery  call: 
"All-Aloney!" 

Ah,  that  in  the  years  to  come, 

When  he  shares  of  Sorrow's  store, — 

When  his  feet  are  chill  and  numb, 

When  his  cross  is  burdensome, 
And  his  heart  is  sore: 

Would  that  he  could  hear  once  more 
The  gentle  voice  he  used  to  hear — 
Divine  with  mother  love  and  cheer — • 

Calling  from  yonder  spirit  shore: 
"All,  all  alone!" 


310  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 


SEEIN'  THINGS 

I  AIN'T  afeard  uv  snakes,  or  toads,  or  bugs,  or  worms,  or  mice, 

An'  things  'at  girls  are  skeered  uv  I  think  are  awful  nice! 

I  'm  pretty  brave,  I  guess;   an'  yet  I  hate  to  go  to  bed, 

For,  when  I  'm  tucked  up  warm  an'  snug  an'  when  my  prayers 

are  said, 

Mother  tells  me  " Happy  dreams!"    and  takes  away  the  light, 
An'  leaves  me  lyin'  all  alone  an'  seein'  things  at  night! 

Sometimes  they  're  in  the  corner,  sometimes  they  're  by  the  door, 
Sometimes  they  're  all  a-standin'  in  the  middle  uv  the  floor; 
Sometimes  they    are    a-sittin'    down,    sometimes    they  're    walkin' 

round 

So  softly  an'  so  creepylike  they  never  make  a  sound! 
Sometimes  they  are  as  black  as  ink,  an'  other  times  they  're  white — 
But  the  color  ain't  no  difference  when  you  see  things  at  night! 

Once,  when  I  licked  a  feller  'at  had  just  moved  on  our  street, 

An'  father  sent  me  up  to  bed  without  a  bite  to  eat, 

I  woke  up  in  the  dark  an'  saw  things  standin'  in  a  row, 

A-lookin'  at  me  cross-eyed  an'  p'intin'  at  me — so! 

Oh,  my!    I  wuz  so  skeered  that  time  I  never  slep'  a  mite — 

It 's  almost  alluz  when  I  'm  bad  I  see  things  at  night! 

Lucky  thing  I  ain't  a  girl,  or  I  'd  be  skeered  to  death! 
Bein'  I  'm  a  boy,  I  duck  my  head  an'  hold  my  breath; 
An'  I  am,  oh!   so  sorry  I  'm  a  naughty  boy,  an'  then 
I  promise  to  be  better  an'  I  say  my  prayers  again! 
Gran'ma  tells  me  that 's  the  only  way  to  make  it  right 
When  a  feller  has  been  wicked  an'  sees  things  at  night! 

4 

An'  so,  when  other  naughty  boys  would  coax  me  into  sin, 
I  try  to  skwush  the  Tempter's  voice  'at  urges  me  within; 
An'  when  they  's  pie  for  supper,  or  cakes  'at  's  big  an'  nice, 
I  want  to — but  I  do  not  pass  my  plate  f'r  them  things  twice! 
No,  ruther  let  Starvation  wipe  me  slowly  out  o'  sight 
Than  I  should  keep  a-livin'  on  an'  seein'  things  at  night! 


311 

THE  CUNNIN'   LITTLE  THING 

WHEN  baby  wakes  of  mornings, 
Then  it 's  wake,  ye  people  all! 
For  another  day 
Of  song  and  play 
Has  come  at  our  darling's  call! 
And,  till  she  gets  her  dinner, 
She  makes  the  welkin  ring, 
And  she  won't  keep  still  till  she  's  had  her  fill — 
The  cunnin'  little  thing! 

When  baby  goes  a-walking, 
Oh,  how  her  paddies  fly! 
For  that 's  the  way 
The  babies  say 
To  other  folk  "by-by"; 
The  trees  bend  down  to  kiss  her, 
And  the  birds  in  rapture  sing, 
As  there  she  stands  and  waves  her  hands — 
The  cunnin'  little  thing! 

When  baby  goes  a-rocking 
In  her  bed  at  close  of  day, 
At  hide-and-seek 
On  her  dainty  cheek 
The  dreams  and  the  dimples  play; 
Then  it 's  sleep  in  the  tender  kisses 

The  guardian  angels  bring 
From  the  Far  Above  to  my  sweetest  love — 
You  cunnin'  little  thing! 


THE  DOLL'S  WOOING 

THE  little  French  doll  was  a  dear  little  doll 
Tricked  out  in  the  sweetest  of  dresses; 
Her  eyes  were  of  hue 
A  most  delicate  blue 


312  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 

And  dark  as  the  night  were  her  tresses; 
Her  dear  little  mouth  was  fluted  and  red, 
And  this  little  French  doll  was  so  very  well  bred 
That  whenever  accosted  her  little  mouth  said: 
"Mamma!   mamma!" 

The  stockinet  doll,  with  one  arm  and  one  leg, 
Had  once  been  a  handsome  young  fellow, 
But  now  he  appeared 
Rather  frowzy  and  bleared 
In  his  torn  regimentals  of  yellow; 
Yet  his  heart  gave  a  curious  thump  as  he  lay 
In  the  little  toy  cart  near  the  window  one  day 
And  heard  the  sweet  voice  of  that  French  dolly  say: 
" Mamma!   mamma!" 

He  listened  so  long  and  he  listened  so  hard 
That  anon  he  grew  ever  so  tender, 
For  it 's  everywhere  known 
That  the  feminine  tone 
Gets  away  with  all  masculine  gender! 
He  up  and  he  wooed  her  with  soldierly  zest 
But  all  she  'd  reply  to  the  love  he  professed 
Were  these  plaintive  words  (which  perhaps  you  have  guessed) 
"Mamma!  mamma!" 

Her  mother — a  sweet  little  lady  of  five — 
Vouchsafed  her  parental  protection, 
And  although  stockinet 
Was  n't  blue-blooded,  yet 
She  really  could  make  no  objection! 
So  soldier  and  dolly  were  wedded  one  day, 
And  a  moment  ago,  as  I  journeyed  that  way, 
I  'm  sure  that  I  heard  a  wee  baby  voice  say: 
"Mamma!   mamma!" 


INSCRIPTION    FOR    MY    LITTLE    SON'S    SILVER    PLATE      313 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  MY  LITTLE  SON'S 
SILVER  PLATE 

WHEN  thou  dost  eat  from  off  this  plate, 
I  charge  thee  be  thou  temperate; 
Unto  thine  elders  at  the  board 
Do  thou  sweet  reverence  accord; 
And,  though  to  dignity  inclined, 
Unto  the  serving- folk  be  kind; 
Be  ever  mindful  of  the  poor, 
Nor  turn  them  hungry  from  the  door; 
And  unto  God,  for  health  and  food 
And  all  that  in  thy  life  is  good, 
Give  thou  thy  heart  in  gratitude. 


FISHERMAN   JIM'S  KIDS 

FISHERMAN  JIM  lived  on  the  hill 

With  his  bonnie  wife  an'  his  little  boys; 

'T  wuz  "Blow,  ye  winds,  as  blow  ye  will — 
Naught  we  reck  of  your  cold  and  noise!" 
For  happy  and  warm  were  he  an'  his, 

And  he  dandled  his  kids  upon  his  knee 

To  the  song  of  the  sea. 

Fisherman  Jim  would  sail  all  day, 

But,  when  come  night,  upon  the  sands 

His  little  kids  ran  from  their  play, 
Callin'  to  him  an'  wavin'  their  hands; 

Though  the  wind  was  fresh  and  the  sea  was  high, 

He  'd  hear  'em — you  bet — above  the  roar 

Of  the  waves  on  the  shore! 

Once  Fisherman  Jim  sailed  into  the  bay 
As  the  sun  went  down  in  a  cloudy  sky, 
And  never  a  kid  saw  he  at  play, 


314  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 

And  he  listened  in  vain  for  the  welcoming  cry. 

In  his  little  house  he  learned  it  all, 
And  he  clinched  his  hands  and  he  bowed  his  head- 
"The  fever!"  they  said. 

'T  wuz  a  pitiful  time  for  Fisherman  Jim, 
With  them  darlin's  a-dyin'  afore  his  eyes, 

A-stretchin'  their  wee  hands  out  to  him 

An'  a-breakin'  his  heart  with  the  old-time  cries 
He  had  heerd  so  often  upon  the  sands; 

For  they  thought  they  wuz  helpin'  his  boat  ashore- 

Till  they  spoke  no  more. 

But  Fisherman  Jim  lived  on  and  on, 
Castin'  his  nets  an'  sailin'  the  sea; 

As  a  man  will  live  when  his  heart  is  gone, 
Fisherman  Jim  lived  hopelessly, 

Till  once  in  those  years  they  come  an'  said: 

"Old  Fisherman  Jim  is  powerful  sick — 

Go  to  him,  quick!" 

Then  Fisherman  Jim  says  he  to  me: 

"It 's  a  long,  long  cruise — you  understand — 

But  over  beyont  the  ragin'  sea 

I  kin  see  my  boys  on  the  shinin'  sand 
Waitin'  to  help  this  ol'  hulk  ashore, 

Just  as  they  used  to — ah,  mate,  you  know! — 

In  the  long  ago." 

No,  sir!   he  wuz  n't  afeard  to  die; 

For  all  night  long  he  seemed  to  see 
His  little  boys  of  the  days  gone  by, 

An'  to  hear  sweet  voices  forgot  by  me! 

An'  just  as  the  mornin'  sun  come  up — 
"They  're  holdih'  me  by  the  hands!"  he  cried, 
An'  so  he  died. 


315 


"FIDDLE-DEE-DEE" 

THERE  once  was  a  bird  that  lived  up  in  a  tree, 

And  all  he  could  whistle  was  "Fiddle-dee-dee" — 

A  very  provoking,  unmusical  song 

For  one  to  be  whistling  the  summer  day  long! 

Yet  always  contented  and  busy  was  he 

With  that  vocal  recurrence  of  "Fiddle-dee-dee." 

Hard  by  lived  a  brave  little  soldier  of  four, 
That  weird  iteration  repented  him  sore; 
"I  prithee,  Dear-Mother-Mine!   fetch  me  my  gun, 
For,  by  our  St.  Didy!   the  deed  must  be  done 
That  shall  presently  rid  all  creation  and  me 
Of  that  ominous  bird  and  his  'Fiddle-dee-dee'!" 

Then  out  came  Dear-Mother-Mine,  bringing  her  son 

His  awfully  truculent  little  red  gun; 

The  stock  was  of  pine  and  the  barrel  of  tin, 

The  "bang"  it  came  out  where  the  bullet  went  in — 

The  right  kind  of  weapon  I  think  you  '11  agree 

For  slaying  all  fowl  that  go  "Fiddle-dee-dee"! 

The  brave  little  soldier  quoth  never  a  word, 

But  he  up  and  he  drew  a  straight  bead  on  that  bird; 

And,  while  that  vain  creature  provokingly  sang, 

The  gun  it  went  off  with  a  terrible  bang! 

Then  loud  laughed  the  youth — "By  my  Bottle,"  cried  he 

"I  have  put  a  quietus  on  'Fiddle-dee-dee'!" 

Out  came  then  Dear-Mother-Mine,  saying:  "My  son, 
Right  well  have  you  wrought  with  your  little  red  gun! 
Hereafter  no  evil  at  all  need  I  fear, 
With  such  a  brave  soldier  as  You-My-Love  here!" 
She  kissed  the  dear  boy. 

[The  bird  in  the  tree 
Continued  to  whistle  his  "Fiddle-dee-dee"!] 


316  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 

OVER  THE  HILLS  AND  FAR  AWA1 

OVER  the  hills  and  far  away, 

A  little  boy  steals  from  his  morning  play 

And  under  the  blossoming  apple-tree 

He  lies  and  he  dreams  of  the  things  to  be: 

Of  battles  fought  and  of  victories  won, 

Of  wrongs  overthrown  and  of  great  deeds  done 

Of  the  valor  that  he  shall  prove  some  day, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away — 

Over  the  hills,  and  far  away! 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away 
It's,  oh,  for  the  toil  the  livelong  day! 
But  it  mattereth  not  to  the  soul  aflame 
With  a  love  for  riches  and  power  and  fame  I 
On,  O  man!   while  the  sun  is  high — 
On  to  the  certain  joys  that  lie 
Yonder  where  blazeth  the  noon  of  day, 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away — 

Over  the  hills,  and  far  away! 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away, 

An  old  man  lingers  at  close  of  day; 

Now  that  his  journey  is  almost  done, 

His  battles  fought  and  his  victories  won — 

The  old-time  honesty  and  truth, 

The  trustfulness  and  the  friends  of  youth, 

Home  and  mother — where  are  they? 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away — 

Over  the  years,  and  far  away! 


CRADLE  SONG 

THE  twinkling  stars,  that  stud  the  skies 
Throughout  the  quiet  night, 

Are  only  precious  little  eyes 
Of  babies  fair  and  bright; 


CRADLE    SONG  317 

For,  when  the  babies  are  asleep, 

An  angel  comes  and  takes 
Their  little  eyes  to  guard  and  keep 

Until  the  morning  breaks. 
So,  in  the  sky  and  on  the  earth, 

Those  little  eyes  divine, 
With  quiet  love  and  twinkling  mirth, 

Through  all  the  darkness  shine. 
The  golden  and  majestic  moon 

Beholds  these  baby  eyes, 
And,  mother-like,  she  loves  to  croon 

Her  softest  lullabies, 

Her  gentlest  hushabies. 

The  tiny  flow'rs  the  baby  knew 

Throughout  the  noisy  day, 
Now  ope  their  blossoms  to  the  dew 

And,  smiling,  seem  to  say: 
"We  know  you,  stars,  serene  and  small, 

Up  yonder  in  the  skies — 
You  are  no  little  stars  at  all — 

You  're  only  baby  eyes!" 
The  lambkins  scamper  to  and  fro 

And  chase  the  night  away, 
For  they  are  full  of  joy  to  know 

The  stars  behold  their  play. 
The  wind  goes  dancing,  free  and  light, 

O'er  tree  and  hilltop  high. 
And  murmurs  all  the  happy  night 

The  sweetest  lullaby, 

The  gentlest  hushaby. 

So  let  thy  little  eyelids  close 

Like  flow'rs  at  set  of  sun. 
And  tranquil  be  thy  soul's  repose, 

My  precious  weary  one! 
The  still  and  melancholy  night 

Is  envious  of  thine  eyes, 
And  longs  to  see  their  glorious  light 

In  yonder  azure  skies. 


318  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

The  daisies  wonder  all  the  while 

Why  all  is  dark  above, 
And  clamor  for  the  radiant  smile 

Of  little  orbs  they  love; 
And,  lo!   an  angel  hovers  near 

To  bear  thine  eyes  on  high. 
So  sleep,  my  babe,  if  thou  would' st  hear 

The  music  of  the  sky — 

Sweet  nature's  hushaby. 


THE  ROSE  AND  THE   ICEBERG 

I  HASTEN  from  the  land  of  snows, 

Where  sunbeams  dance  and  quiver, 
Unto  the  dwelling  of  a  rose, 

Hard  by  a  southern  river. 
An  iceberg  loves  the  blooming  thing, 

But  she  will  pay  no  heeding 
Unto  the  splendid  polar  king, 

Nor  to  his  piteous  pleading. 

Abashed  that  she  is  hostile  to 

His  amorous  pursuing, 
The  iceberg  wills  that  I  should  go 

To  do  his  kingly  wooing. 
He  bids  me  lure  her  from  her  tree, 

And  from  her  balmy  places; 
And  bear  her  swiftly  back  with  me. 

Unto  his  fond  embraces. 

So,  swiftly  o'er  the  mountains  high, 

And  through  the  forests  gloomy, 
Unto  the  distant  vale  I  fly 

To  win  this  blossom  to  me. 
To-morrow  evening  shall  I  ride — 

More  merrisome  and  faster — 
For  I  shall  bear  the  blooming  bride 

Back  to  my  knightly  master. 


A    HUSHABY  319 


A  HUSHABY 

BA-BA,  baby  sheep, 

Chill  and  sombre  grows  the  night- 
Only  stars  from  heaven's  height 
Shed  on  us  their  golden  light — 

Ba-ba,  go  to  sleep — 

Go  to  sleep,  baby  sheep! 

Ba-ba,  baby  sheep — 

Never  mind  the  goblin's  growl — 
Never  heed  the  hoodoo's  howl — 
Let  the  hippogriffin  prowl — 

Ba-ba,  mother  '11  keep 

Watch  over  baby  sheep! 

Ba-ba,  baby  sheep — 

Up  above,  serene  and  far, 
Beams  a  tiny  golden  star 
Listening  to  the  ba-ba 
I  am  singing  to  the  sheep, 
As  they  rock  the  lambs  to  sleep. 


SONG  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

FAR,  far  beyond  yon  Eastern  steeps 
There  is  an  humble  little  cot, 
And  in  that  homely,  lonely  spot 

A  mother  prays  and  weeps. 

Be  calm,  dear  one,  the  Father  hears 
Thy  softest  plaint  and  faintest  sigh, 
And  He  hath  bless'd  thy  pray'rful  cry 

And  sanctified  thy  tears. 

And  He  hath  sent  us  clouds  to  bear 
Thy  mother's  tears,  in  form  of  rain, 
Unto  the  distant  desert  plain, 


320  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

To  cool  the  desert  air. 
The  fainting  youth  will  feel  our  breath 
Upon  his  bronzed  and  fevered  face, 
And  have  new  strength  to  leave  that  place- 
That  arid  haunt  of  death. 

The  mother  heart  need  not  despair — 
To-morrow  eve  the  son  shall  rest 
Upon  that  mother's  joyful  breast, 

For  God  hath  heard  her  pray'r. 

So,  gentle  stars,  stay  not  our  flight — 
A  mother's  tears,  in  form  of  rain, 
We  bear  unto  that  distant  plain 

Where  faints  a  son  to-night. 


THE  PRINCESS  MING 

THERE  was  a  prince  by  the  name  of  Tsing 
Who  lived  in  the  Chinese  town  of  Lung 
And  fell  in  love  with  the  Princess  Ming 

Who  lived  in  the  neighboring  town  of  Jung; 
'Twas  a  terrible  thing 
For  Tsing  and  Ming, ! 
As  you  '11  allow,  when  you  've  heard  me  sing. 

Now  it  happened  so  that  the  town  of  Lung, 

Where  lived  the  prince  who  longed  to  woo, 
Went  out  to  war  with  the  town  of  Jung 

With  junks  and  swords  and  matchlocks,  too — 
'Twas  a  terrible  thing 
For  Tsing  and  Ming, 
As  you  '11  allow,  when  you  've  heard  me  sing. 

Miss  Ming's  papa  was  eating  rice 

On  yestermorn  at  half-past  eight, 
And  had  carved  a  pie  composed  of  mice, 

When  the  soldiers  knocked  at  his  palace  gate: 


THE    PRINCESS   MING  321 

They  were  led  by  Tsing, 
And  they  called  for  Ming, 
Which  all  will  allow  was  a  terrible  thing! 

Miss  Ming's  papa  girt  on  his  sword — 

"For  this/'  quoth  he,  "I  '11  have  his  gore!" 
In  vain  the  Princess  Ming  implored — 

In  vain  she  swooned  on  the  palace  floor — 
The  Princess  Ming 
Who  was  wooed  of  Tsing 
Could  not  prevail  with  the  gruff  old  King! 

The  old  King  opened  the  palace  gate 

And  in  marched  Tsing  with  his  soldiers  grim, 
And  the  King  smote  Tsing  on  his  princely  pate — • 
Stating  this  stern  rebuke  to  him: 
"It's  a  fatal  thing 
For  you,  Mr.  Tsing, 
To  come  a-courting  the  Princess  Ming!" 

The  prince  most  keenly  felt  this  slight, 

But  still  more  keenly  the  cut  on  his  head; 
So,  suddenly  turning  cold  and  white, 
He  fell  to  the  earth  and  lay  there  dead. 
Which  act  of  the  King 
To  the  handsome  Tsing 
Was  a  brutal  shock  to  the  Princess  Ming. 

No  sooner  did  the  young  prince  die 

Than  Princess  Ming  from  the  palace  flew, 
And  jumped  straight  into  the  River  Ji, 
With  the  dreadful  purpose  of  dying,  too! 
'Twas  a  natural  thing 
For  the  Princess  Ming 
To  do  for  love  of  the  handsome  Tsing! 

And  when  she  leaped  in  the  River  Ji, 

And  gasped  and  choked  till  her  face  was  blue, 
A  crocodile  fish  came  paddling  by 

And  greedily  bit  Miss  Ming  in  two — 


322  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 

The  horrid  old  thing 
Devoured  Miss  Ming, 
Who  had  hoped  to  die  for  the  love  of  Tsing. 

When  the  King  observed  her  life  adjourned, 
By  the  crocodile's  biting  the  girl  in  twain, 
Up  to  the  ether  his  toes  he  turned, 

With  a  ghastly  rent  in  his  jugular  vein; 
So  the  poor  old  King, 
And  Tsing,  and  Ming 
Were  dead  and  gone — what  a  terrible  thing! 

And  as  for  the  crocodile  fish  that  had 

Devoured  Miss  Ming  in  this  off-hand  way, 
He  caught  the  dyspepsy  so  dreadful  bad 
That  he,  too,  died  that  very  day! 
So,  now,  with  the  King, 
And  Tsing,  and  Ming, 
And  the  crocodile  dead,  what  more  can  I  sing? 


AN  ELFIN  SUMMONS 

FROM  the  flow'rs  and  from  the  trees 

Come,  O  tiny  midnight  elves, 
And,  to  music  of  the  breeze, 

Merrily  disport  yourselves. 
Harnessing  the  glow-worm's  wing, 

Drive  the  glow-worm  for  your  steed, 
Or  with  crickets  dance  and  sing 

On  the  velvet,  perfumed  mead. 
Forth  from  pretty  blue-bells  creep 

To  coquette  with  starlight  gleam — 
See,  the  lambkins  are  asleep 

And  the  daisies  sleeping  dream. 
Hasten  to  engage  yourselves 
In  your  frolics,  midnight  elves! 


A   BROOK   SONG  323 

See,  a  toad  with  jewelled  eyes 

Comes  and  croaks  his  homely  song 
To  the  spider  as  she  plies 

Her  deft  spinning  all  night  long; 
See  the  bat  with  rustling  wings 

Darting  nervously  above — • 
Hear  the  cricket  as  she  sings 

To  her  little  violet  love. 
All  the  goblins  are  asleep 

And  no  flimflam  hovers  near, 
So  from  out  the  posies  creep 

With  your  Elfin  ladies  dear; 
Merrily  disport  yourselves, 
Frisky  little  midnight  elves! 


A  BROOK  SONG 

I  'M  hastening  from  the  distant  hills 

With  swift  and  noisy  flowing, 
Nursed  by  a  thousand  tiny  rills, 

I  'm  ever  onward  going. 
The  willows  cannot  stay  my  course, 

With  all  their  pliant  wooing. 
I  sing  and  sing  till  I  am  hoarse, 

My  prattling  way  pursuing. 
I  kiss  the  pebbles  as  I  pass, 

And  hear  them  say  they  love  me; 
I  make  obeisance  to  the  grass 

That  kindly  bends  above  me. 
So  onward  through  the  meads  and  dells 

I  hasten,  never  knowing 
The  secret  motive  that  impels, 

Or  whither  I  am  going. 

A  little  child  comes  often  here 
To  watch  my  quaint  commotion, 

As  I  go  tumbling,  swift  and  clear, 
Down  to  the  distant  ocean; 


324  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

And  as  he  plays  upon  my  brink, 

So  thoughtless  like  and  merry, 
And  full  of  noisy  song,  I  think 

The  child  is  like  me,  very. 
Through  all  the  years  of  youthful  play, 

With  ne'er  a  thought  of  sorrow, 
We,  prattling,  speed  upon  our  way, 

Unmindful  of  the  morrow; 
Aye,  through  these  sunny  meads  and  dells 

We  gambol,  never  trowing 
The  solemn  motive  that  impels, 

Or  whither  we  are  going. 

And  men  come  here  to  say  to  me: 

"Like  you,  with  weird  commotion, 
O  little  singing  brooklet,  we 

Are  hastening  to  an  ocean; 
Down  to  a  vast  and  misty  deep, 

With  fleeting  tears  and  laughter, 
We  go,  nor  rest  until  we  sleep 

In  that  profound  Hereafter. 
What  tides  may  bear  our  souls  along — 

What  monsters  rise  appalling — 
What  distant  shores  may  hear  our  song 

And  answer  to  our  calling? 
Ah,  who  can  say!    through  meads  and  dells 

We  wander,  never  knowing 
The  awful  motive  that  impels, 

Or  whither  we  are  going!" 


THE  DISMAL  DOLE  OF  THE  DOODLEDOO 

A  BINGO  bird  once  nestled  her  nest 
On  the  lissom  bough  of  an  I  O  yew, 

Hard  by  a  burrow  that  was  possess'd 
Of  a  drear  and  dismal  doodledoo. 


THE   DISMAL   DOLE    OF   THE   DOODLEDOO  325 

Eftsoons  this  doodledoo  descried 

The  blithe  and  beautiful  bingo  bird, 
He  vowed  he  'd  woo  her  to  be  his  bride 

With  many  a  sleek  and  winsome  word. 
"Oh,  doo!   oh,  doo!"    sang  the  doodledoo 
To  the  bingo  bird  in  the  yarrish  yew. 

Now  a  churlish  chit  was  the  bingo  bird, 

Though  her  plumes  were  plumes  of  cardinal  hue, 
And  she  smithered  a  smirk  whenever  she  heard 

The  tedious  yawp  of  the  doodledoo; 
For  she  loved,  alas!  a  subtile  snaix, 

Which  had  a  sting  at  the  end  of  his  tail 
And  lived  in  a  tarn  of  sedge  and  brakes 

On  the  murky  brink  of  a  gruesome  swail. 
"Oh,  doo!   oh,  doo!"    moaned  the  doodledoo, 
As  dimmer  and  danker  each  day  he  grew. 

Now,  when  this  doodledoo  beheld 

The  snaix  go  wooing  the  bingo  bird, 
With  envious  rancor  his  bosom  swelled — 

His  soul  with  bitter  remorse  was  stirred. 
And  a  flubdub  said  to  the  doodledoo, 

"The  subtile  snaix  isn't  toting  square — 
I  tell  no  tales — but  if  I  were  you, 

I  'd  stop  his  courting  the  bingo  fair! 
Aye,  marry,  come  up,  I  'd  fain  imbrue, 
If  I  were  only  a  doodledoo!" 

These  burning  words  which  the  flubdub  said 

Inflamed  the  reptile's  tortured  soul 
Till  the  bristles  rose  on  his  livid  head, 

And  his  slimy  tongue  began  for  to  roll; 
His  skin  turned  red  and  his  fangs  turned  black 

And  his  eyes  exuded  a  pool  of  tears, 
And  the  scales  stood  up  on  his  bony  back, 

And  fire  oozed  out  of  his  nose  and  ears! 
Oh,  he  was  a  terrible  sight  to  view — 
This  fierce  and  vengeful  doodledoo! 


326  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 

The  very  next  morn,  as  the  bingo  bird 

Was  nursing  her  baby  bingoes  three, 
She  gave  a  start,  for  she  plainly  heard 

An  ominous  sound  at  the  foot  of  the  tree! 
Her  keen  eye  lit  on  the  gruesome  brakes, 

From  whence  proceeded  the  hullaballoo — 
And,  lo  and  behold!   'twas  the  subtile  snaix, 

Busy  at  work  with  the  doodledoo. 
Boo-hoo!  boo-hoo!   how  the  feathers  flew, 
When  the  snaix  imbrued  with  the  doodledoo! 

They  fought  and  scratched,  and  they  bit  and  bled. 

Dispensing  gore  and  their  vitals,  too, 
And  never  pausing  till  both  were  dead — 

The  subtile  snaix  and  the  doodledoo! 
And  the  bingo  bird — she  didn't  mind, 

But  giving  her  shoulders  a  careless  shrug, 
She  went  the  way  of  her  female  kind, 

And  straightway  wedded  the  straddlebug! 
And  there  was  nobody  left  to  rue 
The  doom  of  the  snaix  and  the  doodledoo — 
Unless,  mayhap,  'twas  the  I  O  yew. 


THE  VIOLET'S  LOVE  STORY 

HERE  died  a  robin  in  the  spring, 
And,  when  he  fluttered  down  to  me, 

I  tried  to  bind  his  broken  wing, 
And  soothe  his  dying  agony. 

I  loved  the  wounded  little  bird — 

And,  though  my  heart  was  full  to  break, 

I  loved  in  silence — ne'er  a  word 
Of  that  dear,  hopeless  love  I  spake. 

I  saw  his  old  companions  bring 
Their  funeral  tributes  to  his  dell; 

But,  when  they  went,  I  stayed  to  sing 
The  love  I  had  not  dared  to  tell. 


AN   INVITATION   TO   SLEEP  327 

So,  while  the  little  robin  sleeps, 

The  sorrowing  violet  bides  above: 
And  still  she  sings,  as  still  she  weeps, 

A  requiem  to  her  buried  love. 


AN  INVITATION  TO  SLEEP 

LITTLE  eyelids,  cease  your  winking; 

Little  orbs,  forget  to  beam; 
Little  soul,  to  slumber  sinking, 

Let  the  fairies  rule  your  dream. 
Breezes,  through  the  lattice  sweeping, 

Sing  their  lullabies  the  while — 
And  a  star-ray,  softly  creeping 

To  thy  bedside,  woos  thy  smile. 
But  no  song  nor  ray  entrancing 

Can  allure  thee  from  the  spell 
Of  the  tiny  fairies  dancing 

O'er  the  eyes  they  love  so  well. 
See,  we  come  in  countless  number — 

I,  their  queen,  and  all  my  court- 
Haste,  my  precious  one,  to  slumber 

Which  invites  our  fairy  sport. 


COQUETRY 

TIDDLE-DE-DUMPTY,  tiddle-de-dee— 
The  spider  courted  the  frisky  flea; 
Tiddle-de-dumpty,  tiddle-de-doo — 
The  flea  ran  off  with  the  bugaboo! 
"Oh,  tiddle-de-dee!" 
Said  the  frisky  flea — 
For  what  cared  she 
For  the  miseree 
The  spider  knew, 
When,  tiddle-de-doo, 
The  flea  ran  off  with  the  bugaboo! 


328  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 

Rumpty-tumpty,  pimplety-pan — 
The  flubdub  courted  a  catamaran 
But  timplety-topplety,  timpity-tare — 
The  flubdub  wedded  the  big  blue  bear' 
The  fun  began 
With  a  pimplety-pan, 
When  the  catamaran 
Tore  up  a  man 
And  streaked  the  air 
With  his  gore  and  hair 
Because  the  flubdub  wedded  the  bear! 


THE  CRICKET'S  SONG 

WHEN  all  around  from  out  the  ground 

The  little  flowers  are  peeping, 
And  from  the  hills  the  merry  rills 

With  vernal  songs  are  leaping, 
I  sing  my  song  the  whole  day  long 

In  woodland,  hedge,  and  thicket — 
And  sing  it,  too,  the  whole  night  through, 

For  I  'm  a  merry  cricket. 

The  children  hear  my  chirrup  clear 

As,  in  the  woodland  straying, 
They  gather  flow'rs  through  summer  hours- 

And  then  I  hear  them  saying: 
"Sing,  sing  away  the  livelong  day, 

Glad  songster  of  the  thicket — 
With  your  shrill  mirth  you  gladden  earth, 

You  merry  little  cricket!" 

When  summer  goes,  and  Christmas  snows 

Are  from  the  north  returning, 
I  quit  my  lair  and  hasten  where 

The  old  yule-log  is  burning. 


THE   FATE   OF   THE   FLIMFLAM  329 

And  where  at  night  the  ruddy  light 

Of  that  old  log  is  flinging 
A  genial  joy  o'er  girl  and  boy, 

There  I  resume  my  singing. 

And,  when  they  hear  my  chirrup  clear, 

The  children  stop  their  playing — 
With  eager  feet  they  haste  to  greet 

My  welcome  music,  saying: 
"The  little  thing  has  come  to  sing 

Of  woodland,  hedge,  and  thicket — 
Of  summer  day  and  lambs  at  play — 

Oh,  how  we  love  the  cricket!" 


THE  FATE   OF  THE  FLIMFLAM 

A  FLIMFLAM  flopped  from  a  fillamaloo, 

Where  the  pollywog  pinkled  so  pale, 
And  the  pipkin  piped  a  petulant  "pooh" 

To  the  garrulous  gawp  of  the  gale. 
"Oh,  woe  to  the  swap  of  the  sweeping  swipe 

That  booms  on  the  bobbling  bay!" 
Snickered  the'snark  to  the  snoozing  snipe 

That  lurked  where  the  lamprey  lay. 

The  gluglug  glinked  in  the  glimmering  gloam, 

Where  the  buzbuz  bumbled  his  bee — 
When  the  flimflam  flitted,  all  flecked  with  foam, 

From  the  sozzling  and  succulent  sea. 
"Oh,  swither  the  swipe,  with  its  sweltering  sweep!" 

She  swore  as  she  swayed  in  a  swoon, 
And  a  doleful  dank  dumped  over  the  deep, 

To  the  lay  of  the  limpid  loon! 


330  POEMS   OF  CHILDHOOD 


CONTENTMENT 

ONCE  on  a  time  an  old  red  hen 

Went  strutting  'round  with  pompous  clucks. 
For  she  had  little  babies  ten, 

A  part  of  which  were  tiny  ducks. 
"  'T  is  very  rare  that  hens,"  said  she, 

"Have  baby  ducks  as  well  as  chicks — 
But  I  possess,  as  you  can  see, 

Of  chickens  four  and  ducklings  six!" 

A  season  later,  this  old  hen 

Appeared,  still  cackling  of  her  luck, 
For,  though  she  boasted  babies  ten, 

Not  one  among  them  was  a  duck! 
"  'T  is  well,"  she  murmured,  brooding  o'er 

The  little  chicks  of  fleecy  down — 
"My  babies  now  will  stay  ashore, 

And,  consequently,  cannot  drown!" 

The  following  spring  the  old  red  hen 

Clucked  just  as  proudly  as  of  yore — 
But  lo!   her  babes  were  ducklings  ten, 

Instead  of  chickens,  as  before! 
"  'T  is  better,"  said  the  old  red  hen, 

As  she  surveyed  her  waddling  brood; 
"A  little  water  now  and  then 

Will  surely  do  my  darlings  good!" 

But  oh!   alas,  how  very  sad! 

When  gentle  spring  rolled  round  again 
The  eggs  eventuated  bad, 

And  childless  was  the  old  red  hen! 
Yet  patiently  she  bore  her  woe, 

And  still  she  wore  a  cheerful  air, 
And  said:   '   'T  is  best  these  things  are  so, 

For  babies  are  a  dreadful  care!" 


A   FAIRY   LULLABY  331 

I  half  suspect  that  many  men, 

And  many,  many  women,  too, 
Could  learn  a  lesson  from  the  hen 

With  foliage  of  vermilion  hue; 
She  ne'er  presumed  to  take  offence 

At  any  fate  that  might  befall, 
But  meekly  bowed  to  Providence — 

She  was  contented — that  was  all  I 


A  FAIRY  LULLABY 

THERE  are  two  stars  in  yonder  steeps 
That  watch  the  baby  while  he  sleeps. 
But  while  the  baby  is  awake 

And  singing  gayly  all  day  long, 
The  little  stars  their  slumbers  take 
Lulled  by  the  music  of  his  song. 
So  sleep,  dear  tired  baby,  sleep 
While  little  stars  their  vigils  keep. 

Beside  his  loving  mother-sheep 
A  little  lambkin  is  asleep; 

What  does  he  know  of  midnight  gloom- 
He  sleeps,  and  in  his  quiet  dreams 
He  thinks  he  plucks  the  clover  bloom 

And  drinks  at  cooling,  purling  streams. 
And  those  same  stars  the  baby  knows 
Sing  softly  to  the  lamb's  repose. 

Sleep,  little  lamb;   sleep,  little  child— 

The  stars  are  dim — the  night  is  wild; 

But  o'er  the  cot  and  o'er  the  lea 

A  sleepless  eye  forever  beams — 
A  shepherd  watches  over  thee 

In  all  thy  little  baby  dreams; 
The  shepherd  loves  his  tiny  sheep — 
Sleep,  precious  little  lambkin,  sleep! 


332  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 


BALLAD  OF  THE   JELLY-CAKE 

A  LITTLE  boy  whose  name  was  Tim 

Once  ate  some  jelly-cake  for  tea — 
Which  cake  did  not  agree  with  him, 

As  by  the  sequel  you  shall  see. 
"My  darling  child/'  his  mother  said, 

"Pray  do  not  eat  that  jelly-cake, 
For,  after  you  have  gone  to  bed, 

I  fear  't  will  make  your  stomach  ache!" 
But  foolish  little  Tim  demurred 
Unto  his  mother's  warning  word. 

That  night,  while  all  the  household  slept, 

Tim  felt  an  awful  pain,  and  then 
From  out  the  dark  a  nightmare  leapt 

And  stood  upon  his  abdomen! 
"I  cannot  breathe!"   the  infant  cried— 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Nightmare,  pity  take!" 
"There  is  no  mercy,"  she  replied, 

"For  boys  who  feast  on  jelly-cake!" 
And  so,  despite  the  moans  of  Tim, 
The  cruel  nightmare  went  for  him. 

At  first,  she  'd  tickle  Timmy's  toes 

Or  roughly  smite  his  baby  cheek — 
And  now  she  'd  rudely  tweak  his  nose 

And  other  petty  vengeance  wreak; 
And  then,  with  hobnails  in  her  shoes 

And  her  two  horrid  eyes  aflame, 
The  mare  proceeded  to  amuse 

Herself  by  prancing  o'er  his  frame — 
First  to  his  throbbing  brow,  and  then 
Back  to  his  little  feet  again. 

At  last,  fantastic,  wild,  and  weird, 
And  clad  in  garments  ghastly  grim, 

A  scowling  hoodoo  band  appeared 
And  joined  in  worrying  little  Tim. 


MORNING   SONG  333 

Each  member  of  this  hoodoo  horde 

Surrounded  Tim  with  fierce  ado 
And  with  long,  cruel  gimlets  bored 

His  aching  system  through  and  through, 
And  while  they  labored  all  night  long 
The  nightmare  neighed  a  dismal  song. 

Next  morning,  looking  pale  and  wild, 

Poor  little  Tim  emerged  from  bed — 
"Good  gracious!   what  can  ail  the  child!" 

His  agitated  mother  said. 
"We  live  to  learn,"  responded  he, 

"And  I  have  lived  to  learn  to  take 
Plain  bread  and  butter  for  my  tea, 

And  never,  never,  jelly-cake! 
For  when  my  hulk  with  pastry  teems, 
I  must  expect  unpleasant  dreams!" 


MORNING  SONG 

THE  eastern  sky  is  streaked  with  red, 

The  weary  night  is  done, 
And  from  his  distant  ocean  bed 

Rolls  up  the  morning  sun. 
The  dew,  like  tiny  silver  beads 

Bespread  o'er  velvet  green, 
Is  scattered  on  the  wakeful  meads 

By  angel  hands  unseen. 
"Good-morrow,  robin  in  the  trees!" 

The  star-eyed  daisy  cries; 
"Good-morrow,"  sings  the  morning  breeze 

Unto  the  ruddy  skies; 
"Good-morrow,  every  living  thing!" 

Kind  Nature  seems  to  say, 
And  all  her  works  devoutly  sing 

A  hymn  to  birth  of  day, 

So,  haste,  without  delay, 
Haste,  fairy  friends,  on  silver  wing, 

And  to  your  homes  away! 


334  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 


TO  A  SLEEPING  BABY'S  EYES 

AND  thou,  twin  orbs  of  love  and  joy! 
Unveil  thy  glories  with  the  morn — 
Dear  eyes,  another  day  is  born — 

Awake,  O  little  sleeping  boy! 

Bright  are  the  summer  morning  skies, 
But  in  this  quiet  little  room 
There  broods  a  chill,  oppressive  gloom — 

All  for  the  brightness  of  thine  eyes. 

Without  those  radiant  orbs  of  thine 

How  dark  this  little  world  would  be — 
This  sweet  home-world  that  worships  thee — 

So  let  their  wondrous  glories  shine 

On  those  who  love  their  warmth  and  joy — 

Awake,  O  sleeping  little  boy. 


DREAM,   DREAM,   DREAM.' 

DREAM,  dream,  dream 

Of  meadow,  wood,  and  stream; 

Of  bird  and  bee, 

Of  flower  and  tree, 
All  under  the  noonday  gleam; 

Of  the  song  and  play 

Of  mirthful  day — 
Dream,  dream,  dream! 

Dream,  dream,  dream 

Of  glamour,  glint,  and  gleam; 
Of  the  hushaby  things 
The  night  wind  sings 

To  the  moon  and  the  stars  abeam; 
Of  whimsical  sights 
In  the  land  o'  sprites 

Dream,  dream,  dream! 


A    LULLABY  335 


A  LULLABY 

THE  stars  are  twinkling  in  the  skies, 

The  earth  is  lost  in  slumbers  deep; 
So  hush,  my  sweet,  and  close  thine  eyes, 

And  let  me  lull  thy  soul  to  sleep. 
Compose  thy  dimpled  hands  to  rest, 

And  like  a  little  birdling  lie 
Secure  within  thy  cosey  nest 
Upon  my  loving  mother  breast 

And  slumber  to  my  lullaby, 

So  hushaby — O  hushaby. 

The  moon  is  singing  to  a  star 

The  little  song  I  sing  to  you; 
The  father  sun  has  strayed  afar, 

As  baby's  sire  is  straying  too. 
And  so  the  loving  mother  moon 

Sings  to  the  little  star  on  high; 
And  as  she  sings,  her  gentle  tune 
Is  borne  to  me,  and  thus  I  croon 

For  thee,  my  sweet,  that  lullaby 

Of  hushaby — O  hushaby. 

There  is  a  little  one  asleep 

That  does  not  hear  his  mother's  song; 
But  angel  watchers — as  I  weep — 

Surround  his  grave  the  night-tide  long. 
And  as  I  sing,  my  sweet,  to  you, 

Oh,  would  the  lullaby  I  sing — 
The  same  sweet  lullaby  he  knew 
While  slumb'ring  on  this  bosom  too — 

Were  borne  to  him  on  angel's  wing! 

So  hushaby — O  hushaby. 


336  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 


THE  DEATH  OF  ROBIN  HOOD 

"GiVE  me  my  bow,"  said  Robin  Hood, 

"An  arrow  give  to  me; 
And  where  't  is  shot  mark  thou  that  spot, 

For  there  my  grave  shall  be." 

Then  Little  John  did  make  no  sign, 

And  not  a  word  he  spake; 
But  he  smiled,  altho'  with  mickle  woe 

His  heart  was  like  to  break. 

He  raised  his  master  in  his  arms, 

And  set  him  on  his  knee; 
And  Robin's  eyes  beheld  the  skies, 

The  shaws,  the  greenwood  tree. 

The  brook  was  babbling  as  of  old, 

The  birds  sang  full  and  clear, 
And  the  wild-flowers  gay  like  a  carpet  lay 

In  the  path  of  the  timid  deer. 

"O  Little  John,"  said  Robin  Hood, 

"Meseemeth  now  to  be 
Standing  with  you  so  stanch  and  true 

Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

"And  all  around  I  hear  the  sound 

Of  Sherwood  long  ago, 
And  my  merry  men  come  back  again, — 

You  know,  sweet  friend,  you  know! 

"Now  mark  this  arrow;   where  it  falls, 

When  I  am  dead  dig  deep, 
And  bury  me  there  in  the  greenwood  where 

I  would  forever  sleep." 


MOTHER   AND    CHILD  337 

He  twanged  his  bow.     Upon  its  course 

The  clothyard  arrow  sped, 
And  when  it  fell  in  yonder  dell, 

Brave  Robin  Hood  was  dead. 


The  sheriff  sleeps  in  a  marble  vault, 

The  king  in  a  shroud  of  gold; 
And  upon  the  air  with  a  chanted  pray'r 

Mingles  the  mock  of  mould. 

But  the  deer  draw  to  the  shady  pool, 

The  birds  sing  blithe  and  free, 
And  the  wild-flow' rs  bloom  o'er  a  hidden  tomb 

Under  the  greenwood  tree. 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD 

ONE  night  a  tiny  dewdrop  fell 

Into  the  bosom  of  a  rose, — 
"Dear  little  one,  I  love  thee  well, 

Be  ever  here  thy  sweet  repose!" 

Seeing  the  rose  with  love  bedight, 

The  envious  sky  frowned  dark,  and  then 

Sent  forth  a  messenger  of  light 
And  caught  the  dewdrop  up  again. 

"Oh,  give  me  back  my  heavenly  child, — • 
My  love!"    the  rose  in  anguish  cried; 

Alas!    the  sky  triumphant  smiled, 

And  so  the  flower,  heart-broken,  died. 


338  POEMS   OF  CHILDHOOD 


ASHES  ON  THE  SLIDE 

WHEN  Jim  and  Bill  and  I  were  boys  a  many  years  ago, 

How  gayly  did  we  use  to  hail  the  coming  of  the  snow! 

Our  sleds,  fresh  painted  red  and  with  their  runners  round  and 

bright, 

Seemed  to  respond  right  briskly  to  our  clamor  of  delight 
As  we  dragged  them  up  the  slippery  road  that  climbed  the  rugged 

hill 
Where  perched  the  old  frame  meetin'-house,  so  solemn-like  and  still. 

Ah,  coasting  in  those  days — those  good  old  days — was  fun  indeed! 
Sleds  at  that  time  I  'd  have  you  know  were  paragons  of  speed ! 
And  if  the  hill  got  bare  in  spots,  as  hills  will  do,  why  then 
We  'd  haul  on  ice  and  snow  to  patch  those  bald  spots  up  again; 
But,  oh!  with  what  sad  certainty  our  spirits  would  subside 
When  Deacon  Frisbee  sprinkled  ashes  where  we  used  to  slide! 

The  deacon  he  would  roll  his  eyes  and  gnash  his  toothless  gums, 
And  clear  his  skinny  throat,  and  twirl  his  saintly,  bony  thumbs, 
And  tell  you:     "When  I  wuz  a  boy,  they  taught  me  to  eschew 
The  godless,  ribald  vanities  which  modern  youth  pursue! 
The  pathway  that  leads  .down  to  hell  is  slippery, . straight,  and 

wide; 
And  Satan  lurks  for  prey  where  little  boys  are  wont  to  slide!" 

Now,  he  who  ever  in  his  life  has  been  a  little  boy 

Will  not  reprove  me  when  he  hears  the  language  I  employ 

To  stigmatize  as  wickedness  the  deacon's  zealous  spite 

In  interfering  with  the  play  wherein  we  found  delight; 

And  so  I  say,  with  confidence,  not  unalloyed  of  pride: 

"  Gol  durn  the  man  who  sprinkles  ashes  where  the  youngsters  slide ! " 

But  Deacon  Frisbee  long  ago  went  to  his  lasting  rest, 

His  money  well  invested  in  farm  mortgages  out  West; 

Bill,  Jim,  and  I,  no  longer  boys,  have  learned  through  years  of  strife 

That  the  troubles  of  the  little  boy  pursue  the  man  through  life; 

That  here  and  there  along  the  course  wherein  we  hoped  to  glide 

Some  envious  hand  has  sprinkled  ashes  just  to  spoil  our  slide! 


CHRISTMAS   EVE  339 

And  that  malicious,  envious  hand  is  not  the  deacon's  now. 
Grim,  ruthless  Fate,  that  evil  sprite  none  other  is  than  thou! 
Riches  and  honors,  peace  and  care  come  at  thy  beck  and  go; 
The  soul,  elate  with  joy  to-day,  to-morrow  writhes  in  woe; 
And  till  a  man  has  turned  his  face  unto  the  wall  and  died 
He  must  expect  to  get  his  share  of  ashes  on  his  slide' 


CHRISTMAS  EVE 

OH,  hush  thee,  little  Dear-my-Soul, 
The  evening  shades  are  falling, — 

Hush  thee,  my  dear,  dost  thou  not  hear 
The  voice  of  the  Master  calling? 

Deep  lies  the  snow  upon  the  earth, 

But  all  the  sky  is  ringing 
With  joyous  song,  and  all  night  long 

The  stars  shall  dance,  with  singing. 

Oh,  hush  thee,  little  Dear-my-Soul, 
And  close  thine  eyes  in  dreaming, 

And  angels  fair  shall  lead  thee  where 
The  singing  stars  are  beaming. 

A  shepherd  calls  his  little  lambs, 
And  he  longeth  to  caress  them; 

He  bids  them  rest  upon  his  breast, 
That  his  tender  love  may  bless  them. 

So,  hush  thee,  little  Dear-my-Soul, 
Whilst  evening  shades  are  falling, 

And  above  the  song  of  the  heavenly  throng 
Thou  shalt  hear  the  Master  calling. 


340  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 


TELLING  THE  BEES 

OUT  of  the  house  where  the  slumberer  lay 
Grandfather  came  one  summer  day, 
And  under  the  pleasant  orchard  trees 
He  spake  this  wise  to  the  murmuring  bees: 

"The  clover-bloom  that  kissed  her  feet 
And  the  posie-bed  where  she  used  to  play 

Have  honey  store,  but  none  so  sweet 

As  ere  our  little  one  went  away. 
O  bees,  sing  soft,  and,  bees,  sing  low; 
For  she  is  gone  who  loved  you  so." 

A  wonder  fell  on  the  listening  bees 
Under  those  pleasant  orchard  trees, 
And  in  their  toil  that  summer  day 
Ever  their  murmuring  seemed  to  say: 
"Child,  O  child,  the  grass  is  cool, 

And  the  posies  are  waking  to  hear  the  song 
Of  the  bird  that  swings  by  the  shaded  pool, 

Waiting  for  one  that  tarrieth  long." 
'T  was  so  they  called,  to  the  little  one  then, 
As  if  to  call  her  back  again. 

O  gentle  bees,  I  have  come  to  say 

That  grandfather  fell  asleep  to-day, 

And  we  know  by  the  smile  on  grandfather's  face 

He  has  found  his  dear  one's  biding-place. 

So,  bees,  sing  soft,  and,  bees,  sing  low, 
As  over  the  honey-fields  you  sweep, — 

To  the  trees  abloom  and  the  flowers  ablow 

Sing  of  grandfather  fast  asleep; 
And  ever  beneath  these  orchard  trees 
Find  cheer  and  shelter,  gentle  bees. 


TWO    VALENTINES  341 


TWO  VALENTINES 


I — TO   MISTRESS   BARBARA 


THERE  were  three  cavaliers,  all  handsome  and  true, 
On  Valentine's  day  came  a  maiden  to  woo, 
And  quoth  to  your  mother:  "Good-morrow,  my  dear, 
We  came  with  some  songs  for  your  daughter  to  hear!" 


Your  mother  replied:  "I  '11  be  pleased  to  convey 

To  my  daughter  what  things  you  may  sing  or  may  say ! : 


Then  the  first  cavalier  sung:  "My  pretty  red  rose, 
I  '11  love  you  and  court  you  some  day,  I  suppose!" 
And  the  next  cavalier  sung,  with  make-believe  tears: 
"I  've  loved  you!  I  've  loved  you  these  many  long  years!" 


But  the  third  cavalier  (with  the  brown,  bushy  head 
And  the  pretty  blue  jacket  and  necktie  of  red) 
He  drew  himself  up  with  a  resolute  air, 
And  he  warbled:  "O  maiden,  surpassingly  fair! 
I  've  loved  you  long  years,  and  I  love  you  to-day, 
And,  if  you  will  let  me,  I  '11  love  you  for  aye!" 


I  (the  third  cavalier)  sang  this  ditty  to  you, 
In  my  necktie  of  red  and  my  jacket  of  blue; 
I  'm  sure  you  '11  prefer  the  song  that  was  mine 
And  smile  your  approval  on  your  valentine. 


342  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD 

II — TO   A   BABY   BOY 

WHO  I  am  I  shall  not  say, 
But  I  send  you  this  bouquet 
With  this  query,  baby  mine: 
"Will  you  be  my  valentine?" 

See  these  roses  blushing  blue, 
Very  like  your  eyes  of  hue; 
While  these  violets  are  the  red 
Of  your  cheeks.     It  can  be  said 
Ne'er  before  was  babe  like  you. 

And  I  think  it  is  quite  true 
No  one  e  'er  before  to-day 
Sent  so  wondrous  a  bouquet 
As  these  posies  aforesaid — 
Roses  blue  and  violets  red! 

Sweet,  repay  me  sweets  for  sweets — 
'T  is  your  lover  who  entreats! 
Smile  upon  me,  baby  mine — 
Be  my  little  valentine! 


THE  LIMITATIONS  OF  YOUTH 

I  'D  like  to  be  a  cowboy  an'  ride  a  firey  boss 
Way  out  into  the  big  an'  boundless  West; 
I  'd  kill  the  bears  an'  catamounts  an'  wolves  I  come  across, 
An'  I  'd  pluck  the  bal'  head  eagle  from  his  nest! 
With  my  pistols  at  my  side, 
I  would  roam  the  prarers  wide, 

An'  to  scalp  the  savage  Injun  in  his  wigwam  would  I  ride — 
If  I  darst;  but  I  darse  n't! 


THE    LIMITATIONS    OF    YOUTH  343 

I  'd  like  to  go  to  Afriky  an'  hunt  the  lions  there, 

An'  the  biggest  ollyfunts  you  ever  saw! 
I  would  track  the  fierce  gorilla  to  his  equatorial  lair, 
An'  beard  the  cannybull  that  eats  folks  raw ! 
I  'd  chase  the  pizen  snakes 
An'  the  'pottimus  that  makes 

His  nest  down  at  the  bottom  of  unfathomable  lakes — 
If  I  darst;  but  I  darse  n't! 


I  would  I  were  a  pirut  to  sail  the  ocean  blue, 

With  a  big  black  flag  aflyin'  overhead; 
I  would  scour  the  billowy  main  with  my  gallant  pirut  crew 
An'  dye  the  sea  a  gouty,  gory  red! 
With  my  cutlass  in  my  hand 
On  the  quarterdeck  I  'd  stand 

And  to  deeds  of  heroism  I  'd  incite  my  pirut  band — 
If  I  darst;  but  I  darse  n't! 


And,  if  I  darst,  I  'd  lick  my  pa  for  the  times  that  he  's  licked  me! 

I  'd  lick  my  brother  an'  my  teacher,  too ! 
I  'd  lick  the  fellers  that  call  round  on  sister  after  tea, 
An'  I  'd  keep  on  lickin'  folks  till  I  got  through! 
You  bet!  I  'd  run  away 
From  my  lessons  to  my  play, 

An'  I  'd  shoo  the  hens,  an'  tease  the  cat,  an'  kiss  the  girls  all 
day— 

If  I  darst;  but  I  darse  n't! 


344  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD 


A  PITEOUS  PLAINT 


I  CANNOT  eat  my  porridge, 

I  weary  of  my  play; 
No  longer  can  I  sleep  at  night, 

No  longer  romp  by  day!" 
Though  forty  pounds  was  once  my  weight, 

I  'm  shy  of  thirty  now; 
I  pine,  I  wither  and  I  fade 

Through  love  of  Martha  Clow. 


As  she  rolled  by  this  morning 

I  heard  the  nurse  girl  say: 
"She  weighs  just  twenty-seven  pounds 

And  she  's  one  year  old  to-day." 
I  threw  a  kiss  that  nestled 

In  the  curls  upon  her  brow, 
But  she  never  turned  to  thank  me — 

That  bouncing  Martha  Clow! 


She  ought  to  know  I  love  her, 

For  I  've  told  her  that  I  do; 
And  I  've  brought  her  nuts  and  apples, 

And  sometimes  candy,  too! 
I  'd  drag  her  in  my  little  cart 

If  her  mother  would  allow 
That  delicate  attention 

To  her  daughter,  Martha  Clow. 


O  Martha!  pretty  Martha! 

Will  you  always  be  so  cold  ? 
Will  you  always  be  as  cruel 

As  you  are  at  one-year-old  ? 


THE    TWO    LITTLE    SKEEZUCKS  345 

Must  your  two-year-old  admirer 

Pine  as  hopelessly  as  now 
For  a  fond  reciprocation 

Of  his  love  for  Martha  Clow? 


You  smile  on  Bernard  Rogers 

And  on  little  Harry  Knott; 
You  play  with  them  at  peek-a-boo 

All  in  the  Waller  Lot! 
Wildly  I  gnash  my  new-cut  teeth 

And  beat  my  throbbing  brow, 
When  I  behold  the  coquetry 

Of  heartless  Martha  Clow! 


I  cannot  eat  my  porridge, 

Nor  for  my  play  care  I; 
Upon  the  floor  and  porch  and  lawn 

My  toys  neglected  lie; 
But  on  the  air  of  Halsted  Street 

I  breathe  this  solemn  vow: 
"Though  she  be  false,  I  will  be  true 

To  pretty  Martha  Clow!" 


THE  TWO  LITTLE  SKEEZUCKS 

THERE  were  two  little  skeezucks  who  lived  in  the  isle 

Of  Boo  in  a  southern  sea; 
They  clambered  and  rollicked  in  heathenish  style 

In  the  boughs  of  their  cocoanut  tree. 
They  didn't  fret  much  about  clothing  and  such 
And  they  recked  not  a  whit  of  the  ills 
That  sometimes  accrue 
From  having  to  do 
With  tailor  and  laundry  bills. 


346  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

The  two  little  skeezucks  once  heard  of  a  Fair 

Far  off  from  their  native  isle, 

And  they  asked  of  King  Fan  if  they  mightn't  go  there 
To  take  in  the  sights  for  awhile. 
Now  old  King  Fan 
Was  a  good-natured  man 
(As  good-natured  monarchs  go), 
And  howbeit  he  swore  that  all  Fairs  were  a  bore. 
He  hadn't  the  heart  to  say  "No." 


So  the  two  little  skeezucks  sailed  off  to  the  Fair 

In  a  great  big  gum  canoe, 
And  I  fancy  they   had  a  good  time  there, 

For  they  tarried  a  year  or  two. 
And  old  King  Fan  at  last  began 
To  reckon  they  'd  come  to  grief . 
When  glory!  one  day 
They  sailed  into  the  bay 
To  the  tune  of  "Hail  to  the  Chief!" 


The  two  little  skeezucks  fell  down  on  the  sand, 

Embracing  his  majesty's  toes, 
Till  his  majesty  graciously  bade  them  stand 
And  salute  him  nose  to  nose. 
And  then  quoth  he: 
"Divulge  unto  me 
What  happenings  have  hapt  to  you: 
And  how  did  they  dare  to  indulge  in  a  Fair 
So  far  from  the  island  of  Boo?" 


The  two  little  skeezucks  assured  their  king 

That  what  he  surmised  was  true; 
That  the  Fair  would  have  been  a  different  thing 

Had  it  only  been  held  in  Boo! 


THE    TWO    LITTLE    SKEEZUCKS  347 

"The  folk  over  there  in  no  wise  compare 
With  the  folk  of  the  southern  seas; 

Why,  they  comb  out  their  heads 

And  they  sleep  in  beds 
Instead  of  in  caverns  and  trees!" 


The  two  little  skeezucks  went  on  to  say 

That  children  (so  far  as  they  knew) 
Had  a  much  harder  time  in  that  land  far  away 
Than  here  in  the  island  of  Boo! 
They  have  to  wear  clo'es 
Which  (as  every  one  knows) 
Are  irksome  to  primitive  laddies, 
While,  with  forks  and  with  spoons,  they  're  denied  the  sweet 

boons 
That  accrue  from  free  use  of  one's  paddies ! 


"And  now  that  you  're  speaking  of  things  to  eat," 

Interrupted  the  monarch  of  Boo, 
"We  beg  to  inquire  if  you  happened  to  meet 

With  a  nice  missionary  or  two?" 
"No,  that  we  did  not;  in  that  curious  spot 
Where  were  gathered  the  fruits  of  the  earth, 
Of  that  special  kind 
Which  Your  Nibs  has  in  mind 
There  appeared  a  deplorable  dearth!" 


Then  loud  laughed  that  monarch  in  heathenish  mirth 

And  loud  laughed  his  courtiers,  too, 
And  they  cried:  "There  is  elsewhere  no  land  upon  earth 
So  good  as  our  island  of  Boo!" 

And  the  skeezucks,  tho'  glad 
Of  the  journey  they  'd  had, 
Climbed  up  in  their  cocoanut  trees, 

Where  they  still  may  be  seen  with  no  shirts  to  keep  clean 
Or  trousers  that  bag  at  the  knees. 


348  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD 


THE  BOW-LEG  BOY 


WHO  should  come  up  the  road  one  day 
But  the  doctor-man  in  his  two-wheel  shay! 
And  he  whoaed  his  horse  and  he  cried  "Ahoy! 
I  have  brought  you  folks  a  bow-leg  boy! 
Such  a  cute  little  boy! 
Such  a  funny  little  boy! 

Such  a  dear  little  bow-leg  boy!" 


He  took  out  his  box  and  he  opened  it  wide, 
And  there  was  the  bow-leg  boy  inside! 
And  when  they  saw  that  cunning  little  mite, 
They  cried  in  a  chorus  expressive  of  delight: 
"What  a  cute  little  boy! 
What  a  funny  little  boy! 

What  a  dear  little  bow-leg  boy!" 


Observing  a  strict  geometrical  law, 
They  cut  out  his  panties  with  a  circular  saw; 
Which  gave  such  a  stress  to  his  oval  stride 
That  the  people  he  met  invariably  cried: 
"What  a  cute  little  boy! 
What  a  funny  little  boy! 

What  a  dear  little  bow-leg  boy!" 


They  gave  him  a  wheel  and  away  he  went 
Speeding  along  to  his  heart's  content; 
And  he  sits  so  straight  and  he  pedals  so  strong 
That  the  folks  all  say  as  he  bowls  along: 
"What  a  cute  little  boy! 
What  a  funny  little  boy! 

What  a  dear  little  bow-leg  boy!" 


THE    BOW-LEG   BOY  349 

With  his  eyes  aflame  and  his  cheeks  aglow, 
He  laughs  "aha"  and  he  laughs  "oho"; 
And  the  world  is  filled  and  thrilled  with  the  joy 
Of  that  jolly  little  human,  the  bow-leg  boy — 
The  cute  little  boy! 

The  funny  little  boy! 

The  dear  little  bow-leg  boy! 

If  ever  the  doctor-man  comes  my  way 
With  his  wonderful  box  in  his  two-wheel  shay; 
I  '11  ask  for  the  treasure  I  'd  fain  possess — 
Now,  honest  Injun!   can't  you  guess? 
Why,  a  cute  little  boy — 
A  funny  little  boy — 

A  dear  little  bow-leg  boy! 


ECHOES  FROM  THE  SABINE  FARM 

BY  EUGENE  AND  ROSWELL  MARTIN  FIELD 

TO  M.  L.  GRAY 
(DEDICATION) 

COME,  dear  old  friend,  and  with  us  twain 
To  calm  Digentian  groves  repair; 

The  turtle  coos  his  sweet  refrain 
And  posies  are  a-blooming  there; 

And  there  the  romping  Sabine  girls 

Bind  myrtle  in  their  lustrous  curls. 

I  know  a  certain  ilex-tree 

Whence  leaps  a  fountain  cool  and  clear. 
Its  voices  summon  you  and  me; 

Come,  let  us  haste  to  share  its  cheer! 
Methinks  the  rapturous  song  it  sings 
Should  woo  our  thoughts  from  mortal  things. 

But,  good  old  friend,  I  charge  thee  well, 
Watch  thou  my  brother  all  the  while, 

Lest  some  fair  Lydia  cast  her  spell 

Round  him  unschooled  in  female  guile. 

Those  damsels  have  no  charms  for  me; 

Guard  thou  that  brother, — I  '11  guard  thee! 

And,  lo,  sweet  friend!   behold  this  cup, 
Round  which  the  garlands  intertwine; 

With  Massic  it  is  foaming  up, 

And  we  would  drink  to  thee  and  thine. 

And  of  the  draught  thou  shalt  partake, 

Who  lov'st  us  for  our  father's  sake. 
350 


AN    INVITATION    TO    MAECENAS  351 

Hark  you!   from  yonder  Sabine  farm 

Echo  the  songs  of  long  ago, 
With  power  to  soothe  and  grace  to  charm 

What  ills  humanity  may  know; 
With  that  sweet  music  in  the  air, 
"T  is  Love  and  Summer  everywhere. 

So,  though  no  grief  consumes  our  lot 
(Since  all  our  lives  have  been  discreet), 

Come,  in  this  consecrated  spot, 
Let's  see  if  pagan  cheer  be  sweet. 

Now,  then,  the  songs;   but,  first,  more  wine. 

The  gods  be  with  you,  friends  of  mine! 


AN  INVITATION  TO  MAECENAS 

DEAR,  noble  friend!   a  virgin  cask 

Of  wine  solicits  your  attention; 
And  roses  fair,  to  deck  your  hair, 

And  things  too  numerous  to  mention. 
So  tear  yourself  awhile  away 

From  urban  turmoil,  pride,  and  splendor, 
And  deign  to  share  what  humble  fare 

And  sumptuous  fellowship  I  tender. 
The  sweet  content  retirement  brings 
Smoothes  out  the  ruffled  front  of  kings. 

The  evil  planets  have  combined 

To  make  the  weather  hot  and  hotter; 
By  parboiled  streams  the  shepherd  dreams 

Vainly  of  ice-cream  soda-water. 
And  meanwhile  you,  defying  heat, 

With  patriotic  ardor  ponder 
On  what  old  Rome  essays  at  home, 

And  what  her  heathen  do  out  yonder. 
Maecenas,  no  such  vain  alarm 
Disturbs  the  quiet  of  this  farm! 


352  ECHOES   FROM   THE   SABINE   FARM 

God  in  His  providence  obscures 

The  goal  beyond  this  vale  of  sorrow, 
And  smiles  at  men  in  pity  when 

They  seek  to  penetrate  the  morrow. 
With  faith  that  all  is  for  the  best, 

Let's  bear  what  burdens  are  presented., 
That  we  shall  say,  let  come  what  may, 

"We  die,  as  we  have  lived,  contented! 
Ours  is  to-day;    God's  is  the  rest, — 
He  doth  ordain  who  knoweth  best." 

Dame  Fortune  plays  me  many  a  prank. 

When  she  is  kind,  oh,  how  I  go  it! 
But  if  again  she  's  harsh, — why,  then 

I  am  a  very  proper  poet! 
When  favoring  gales  bring  in  my  ships, 

I  hie  to  Rome  and  live  in  clover; 
Elsewise  I  steer  my  skiff  out  here, 

And  anchor  till  the  storm  blows  over. 
Compulsory  virtue  is  the  charm 
Of  life  upon  the  Sabine  farm! 


CHLORIS  PROPERLY  REBUKED 

CHLORIS,  my  friend,  I  pray  you  your  misconduct  to  forswear; 
The  wife  of  poor  old  Ibycus  should  have  more  savoir  faire. 
A  woman  at  your  time  of  life,  and  drawing  near  death's  door, 
Should  not  play  with  the  girly  girls,  and  think  she  's  en  rapport. 

What 's  good  enough  for  Pholoe  you  cannot  well  essay; 
Your  daughter  very  properly  courts  the  jeunesse  doree, — 
A  Thyiad,  who,  when  timbrel  beats,  cannot  her  joy  restrain, 
But  plays  the  kid,  and  laughs  and  giggles  a  I'Americaine. 

'T  is  more  becoming,  madame,  in  a  creature  old  and  poor, 
To  sit  and  spin  than  to  engage  in  an  affaire  d'amour. 
The  lutes,  the  roses,  and  the  wine  drained  deep  are  not  for  you; 
Remember  what  the  poet  says:     Ce  monde  est  plein  de  fous! 


TO   THE   FOUNTAIN    OF    BANDUSIA  353 


TO  THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  BANDUSIA 

O  FOUNTAIN  of  Bandusia! 

Whence  crystal  waters  flow, 
With  garlands  gay  and  wine  I  '11  pay 

The  sacrifice  I  owe; 
A  sportive  kid  with  budding  horns 

I  have,  whose  crimson  blood 
Anon  shall  dye  and  sanctify 

Thy  cool  and  babbling  flood. 

O  fountain  of  Bandusia! 

The  Dog-star's  hateful  spell 
No  evil  brings  into  the  springs 

That  from  thy  bosom  well; 
Here  oxen,  wearied  by  the  plough, 

The  roving  cattle  here 
Hasten  in  quest  of  certain  rest, 

And  quaff  thy  gracious  cheer. 

O  fountain  of  Bandusia! 

Ennobled  shalt  thou  be, 
For  I  shall  sing  the  joys  that  spring 

Beneath  yon  ilex-tree. 
Yes,  fountain  of  Bandusia, 

Posterity  shall  know 
The  cooling  brooks  that  from  thy  nooks 

Singing  and  dancing  go. 


TO  THE   FOUNTAIN  OF  BANDUSIA 

O  FOUNTAIN  of  Bandusia!   more  glittering  than  glass, 
And  worthy  of  th    pleasant  wine  and  toasts  that  freely  pass; 
More  worthy  of  the  flowers  with  which  thou  modestly  art  hid 
To-morrow  willing  hands  shall  sacrifice  to  thee  a  kid. 


354  ECHOES    FROM    THE    SABINE    FARM 

In  vain  the  glory  of  the  brow  where  proudly  swell  above 

The  growing  horns,  significant  of  battle  and  of  love; 

For  in  thy  honor  he  shall  die, — the  offspring  of  the  herd, — 

And  with  his  crimson  life-blood  thy  cold  waters  shall  be  stirred 

The  Dog-star's  cruel  season,  with  its  fierce  and  blazing  heat, 
Has  never  sent  its  scorching  rays  into  thy  glad  retreat; 
The  oxen,  wearied  with  the  plough,  the  herd  which  wanders  near. 
Have  found  a  grateful  respite  and  delicious  coolness  here. 

When  of  the  graceful  ilex  on  the  hollow  rocks  I  sing, 
Thou  shalt  become  illustrious,  O  sweet  Bandusian  spring! 
Among  the  noble  fountains  which  have  been  enshrined  in  fame, 
Thy  dancing,  babbling  waters  shall  in  song  our  homage  claim. 


THE  PREFERENCE  DECLARED 

BOY,  I  detest  the  Persian  pomp; 

I  hate  those  linden-bark  devices; 
And  as  for  roses,  holy  Moses! 

They  can't  be  got  at  living  prices! 
Myrtle  is  good  enough  for  us, — 

For  you,  as  bearer  of  my  flagon; 
For  me,  supine  beneath  this  vine, 

Doing  my  best  to  get  a  jag  on! 


A  TARDY  APOLOGY 


MAECENAS,  you  will  be  my  death, — though  friendly  you  profess 

yourself, — 

If  to  me  in  a  strain  like  this  so  often  you  address  yourself: 
"Come,  Holly,  why  this  laziness?     Why  indolently  shock  you  us? 
Why  with  Lethean  cups  fall  into  desuetude  innocuous?" 


A   TARDY   APOLOGY  355 

A  god,  Maecenas!   yea,  a  god  hath  proved  the  very  curse  of  me! 
If  my  iambics  are  not  done,  pray,  do  not  think  the  worse  of  me; 
Anacreon  for  young  Bathyllus  burned  without  apology, 
And  wept  his  simple  measures  on  a  sample  of  conchology. 

Now,  you  yourself,  Maecenas,  are  enjoying  this  beatitude; 
If  by  no  brighter  beauty  Ilium  fell,  you  've  cause  for  gratitude. 
A  certain  Phryne  keeps  me  on  the  rack  with  lovers  numerous; 
This  is  the  artful  hussy's  neat  conception  of  the  humorous! 


A  TARDY  APOLOGY 
ii 

You  ask  me,  friend, 

Why  I  don't  send 
The  long  since  due-and-paid-for  numbers; 

Why,  songless,  I 

As  drunken  lie 
Abandoned  to  Lethean  slumbers. 

Long  time  ago 

(As  well  you  know) 
I  started  in  upon  that  carmen; 

My  work  was  vain, — 

But  why  complain? 
When  gods  forbid,  how  helpless  are  men! 

Some  ages  back, 

The  sage  Anack 
Courted  a  frisky  Samian  body, 

Singing  her  praise 

In  metered  phrase 
As  flowing  as  his  bowls  of  toddy. 

Till  I  was  hoarse 

Might  I  discourse 
Upon  the  cruelties  of  Venus; 

'T  were  waste  of  time 

As  well  of  rhyme, 
For  you  've  been  there  yourself,  Maecenas! 


356  ECHOES    FROM   THE    SABINE    FARM 

Perfect  your  bliss 

If  some  fair  miss 
Love  you  yourself  and  not  your  minse; 

I,  fortune's  sport, 

All  vainly  court 
The  beauteous,  polyandrous  Phryne! 


TO  THE  SHIP  OF  STATE 

O  SHIP  of  state, 

Shall  new  winds  bear  you  back  upon  the  sea? 
What  are  you  doing?     Seek  the  harbor's  lee 

Ere  't  is  too  late! 

Do  you  bemoan 

Your  side  was  stripped  of  oarage  in  the  blast? 
Swift  Africus  has  weakened,  too,  your  mast; 

The  sailyards  groan. 

Of  cables  bare, 

Your  keel  can  scarce  endure  the  lordly  wave. 
Your  sails  are  rent;   you  have  no  gods  to  save, 

Or  answer  pray'r. 

Though  Pontic  pine, 

The  noble  daughter  of  a  far-famed  wood, 
You  boast  your  lineage  and  title  good, — 

A  useless  line! 

The  sailor  there 

In  painted  sterns  no  reassurance  finds; 
Unless  you  owe  derision  to  the  winds, 

Beware — beware ! 

My  grief  erewhile, 

But  now  my  care — my  longing!   shun  the  seas 
That  flow  between  the  gleaming  Cyclades, 

Each  shining  isle. 


QUITTING   AGAIN  357 


QUITTING  AGAIN 

THE  hero  of 

Affairs  of  love 
By  far  too  numerous  to  be  mentioned, 

And  scarred  as  I  'm, 

It  seemeth  time 
That  I  were  mustered  out  and  pensioned. 

So  on  this  wall 

My  lute  and  all 
I  hang,  and  dedicate  to  Venus; 

And  I  implore 

But  one  thing  more 
Ere  all  is  at  an  end  between  us. 

O  goddess  fair 

Who  reignest  where 
The  weather  's  seldom  bleak  and  snowy, 

This  boon  I  urge: 

In  anger  scourge 
My  old  cantankerous  sweetheart,  Chloe! 


SAILOR  AND  SHADE 

SAILOR 

You,  who  have  compassed  land  and  sea> 

Now  all  unburied  lie; 
All  vain  your  store  of  human  lore, 

For  you  were  doomed  to  die. 
The  sire  of  Pelops  likewise  fell, — 

Jove's  honored  mortal  guest; 
So  king  and  sage  of  every  age 

At  last  lie  down  to  rest. 
Plutonian  shades  enfold  the  ghost 

Of  that  majestic  one 


358  ECHOES   FROM   THE   SABINE   FARM 

Who  taught  as  truth  that  he,  forsooth, 

Had  once  been  Pentheus'  son; 
Believe  who  may,  he  's  passed  away, 

And  what  he  did  is  done. 
A  last  night  comes  alike  to  all; 

One  path  we  all  must  tread, 
Through  sore  disease  or  stormy  seas 

Or  fields  with  corpses  red. 
Whate'er  our  deeds,  that  pathway  leads 

To  regions  of  the  dead. 

SHADE 

The  fickle  twin  Illyrian  gales 

O'erwhelmed  me  on  the  wave; 
But  you  that  live,  I  pray  you  give 

My  bleaching  bones  a  grave! 
Oh,  then  when  cruel  tempests  rage 

You  all  unharmed  shall  be; 
Jove's  mighty  hand  shall  guard  by  land 

And  Neptune's  on  the  sea. 
Perchance  you  fear  to  do  what  may 

Bring  evil  to  your  race  ? 
Oh,  rather  fear  that  like  me  here 

You  '11  lack  a  burial  place. 
So,  though  you  be  in  proper  haste, 

Bide  long  enough,  I  pray, 
To  give  me,  friend,  what  boon  shall  send 

My  soul  upon  its  way! 


LET  US  HAVE  PEACE 

IN  maudlin  spite  let  Thracians  fight 
Above  their  bowls  of  liquor; 

But  such  as  we,  when  on  a  spree, 
Should  never  brawl  and  bicker! 


TO    QUINTUS   DELLIUS  359 

These  angry  words  and  clashing  swords 

Are  quite  de  trop,  I  'm  thinking; 
Brace  up,  my  boys,  and  hush  your  noise, 

And  drown  your  wrath  in  drinking. 

Aha,  't  is  fine, — this  mellow  wine 

With  which  our  host  would  dope  us! 
Now  let  us  hear  what  pretty  dear 

Entangles  him  of  Opus. 

I  see  you  blush, — nay,  comrades,  hush! 

Come,  friend,  though  they  despise  you, 
Tell  me  the  name  of  that  fair  dame, — 

Perchance  I  may  advise  you. 

O  wretched  youth!   and  is  it  truth 

You  love  that  fickle  lady  ? 
I,  doting  dunce,  courted  her  once; 

Since  when,  she  's  reckoned  shady! 


TO  QUINTUS   DELLIUS 

BE  tranquil,  Dellius,  I  pray; 

For  though  you  pine  your  life  away 

With  dull  complaining  breath, 
Or  speed  with  song  and  wine  each  day, 

Still,  still  your  doom  is  death. 

Where  the  white  poplar  and  the  pine 
In  glorious  arching  shade  combine, 

And  the  brook  singing  goes, 
Bid  them  bring  store  of  nard  and  wine 

And  garlands  of  the  rose. 

Let 's  live  while  chance  and  youth  obtain; 
Soon  shall  you  quit  this  fair  domain 

Kissed  by  the  Tiber's  gold, 
And  all  your  earthly  pride  and  gain 

Some  heedless  heir  shall  hold. 


360  ECHOES   FROM   THE   SABINE   FARM 

One  ghostly  boat  shall  some  time  bear 
From  scenes  of  mirthfulness  or  care 

Each  fated  human  soul, — 
Shall  waft  and  leave  its  burden  where 

The  waves  of  Lethe  roll. 

So  come,  I  prithee,  Dellius  mine; 

Let 's  sing  our  songs  and  drink  our  wine 

In  that  sequestered  nook 
Where  the  white  poplar  and  the  pine 

Stand  listening  to  the  brook. 


POKING  FUN  AT  XANTHIAS 

OF  your  love  for  your  handmaid  you  need  feel  no  shame. 

Don't  apologize,  Xanthias,  pray; 
Remember,  Achilles  the  proud  felt  a  flame 

For  Brissy,  his  slave,  as  they  say. 
Old  Telamon's  son,  fiery  Ajax,  was  moved 

By  the  captive  Tecmessa's  ripe  charms; 
And  Atrides,  suspending  the  feast,  it  behooved 

To  gather  a  girl  to  his  arms. 

Now,  how  do  you  know  that  this  yellow-haired  maid 

(This  Phyllis  you  fain  would  enjoy) 
Hasn't  parents  whose  wealth  would  cast  you  in  the  shade,- 

Who  would  ornament  you,  Xan,  my  boy? 
Very  likely  the  poor  chick  sheds  copious  tears, 

And  is  bitterly  thinking  the  while 
Of  the  royal  good  times  of  her  earlier  years, 

When  her  folks  regulated  the  style! 

It  won't  do  at  all,  my  dear  boy,  to  believe 

That  she  of  whose  charms  you  are  proud 
Is  beautiful  only  as  means  to  deceive, — 

Merely  one  of  the  horrible  crowd. 


TO   ARISTIUS   FUSCUS  361 

So  constant  a  sweetheart,  so  loving  a  wife, 

So  averse  to  all  notions  of  greed 
Was  surely  not  born  of  a  mother  whose  life 

Is  a  chapter  you  'd  better  not  read. 

As  an  unbiased  party  I  feel  it  my  place 

(For  I  don't  like  to  do  things  by  halves) 
To  compliment  Phyllis, — her  arms  and  her  face 

And  (excuse  me)  her  delicate  calves. 
Tut,  tut!   don't  get  angry,  my  boy,  or  suspect 

You  have  any  occasion  to  fear 
A  man  whose  deportment  is  always  correct, 

And  is  now  in  his  forty-first  year! 


TO  ARISTIUS  FUSCUS 

Fuscus,  whoso  to  good  inclines, 

And  is  a  faultless  liver, 
Nor  Moorish  spear  now  bow  need  fear, 
Nor  poison-arrowed  quiver. 

Ay,  though  through  desert  wastes  he  roam, 
Or  scale  the  rugged  mountains, 

Or  rest  beside  the  murmuring  tide 
Of  weird  Hydaspan  fountains! 

Lo,  on  a  time,  I  gayly  paced 

The  Sabine  confines  shady, 
And  sung  in  glee  of  Lalage, 

My  own  and  dearest  lady; 

And  as  I  sung,  a  monster  wolf 

Slunk  through  the  thicket  from  me; 

But  for  that  song,  as  I  strolled  along, 
He  would  have  overcome  me! 


362  ECHOES   FROM   THE    SABINE    FARM 

Set  me  amid  those  poison  mists 
Which  no  fair  gale  dispelleth, 

Or  in  the  plains  where  silence  reigns, 
And  no  thing  human  dwelleth, — 

Still  shall  I  love  my  Lalage, 
Still  sing  her  tender  graces; 

And  while  I  sing,  my  theme  shall  bring 
Heaven  to  those  desert  places! 


TO  ALBIUS    TIBULLUS 


NOT  to  lament  that  rival  flame 

Wherewith  the  heartless  Glycera  scorns  you, 
Nor  waste  your  time  in  maudlin  rhyme, 

How  many  a  modern  instance  warns  you! 

Fair-browed  Lycoris  pines  away 
Because  her  Cyrus  loves  another; 

The  ruthless  churl  informs  the  girl 
He  loves  her  only  as  a  brother! 

For  he,  in  turn,  courts  Pholoe, — 

A  maid  unscotched  of  love's  fierce  virus; 

Why,  goats  will  mate  with  wolves  they  hate 
Ere  Pholoe  will  mate  with  Cyrus! 

Ah,  weak  and  hapless  human  hearts, 

By  cruel  Mother  Venus  fated 
To  spend  this  life  in  hopeless  strife, 

Because  incongruously  mated! 

Such  torture,  Albius,  is  my  lot; 

For,  though  a  better  mistress  wooed  me, 
My  Myrtale  has  captured  me, 

And  with  her  cruelties  subdued  me! 


TO    ALBITJS    TIBULLUS  363 

TO  ALBIUS  TIBULLUS 
ii 

GRIEVE  not,  my  Albius,  if  thoughts  of  Glycera  may  haunt  you, 
Nor  chant  your  mournful  elegies  because  she  faithless  proves; 
If  now  a  younger  man  than  you  this  cruel  charmer  loves, 

Let  not  the  kindly  favors  of  the  past  rise  up  to  taunt  you. 

Lycoris  of  the  little  brow  for  Cyrus  feels  a  passion, 
And  Cyrus,  on  the  other  hand,  toward  Pholoe  inclines; 
But  ere  this  crafty  Cyrus  can  accomplish  his  designs 

She-goats  will  wed  Apulian  wolves  in  deference  to  fashion. 

Such  is  the  will,  the  cruel  will,  of  love-inciting  Venus, 

Who  takes  delight  in  wanton  sport  and  ill-considered  jokes, 
And  brings  ridiculous  misfits  beneath  her  brazen  yokes, — 

A  very  infelicitous  proceeding,  just  between  us. 

As  for  myself,  young  Myrtale,  slave-born  and  lacking  graces, 
And  wilder  than  the  Adrian  tides  which  form  Calabrian  bays, 
Entangled  me  in  pleasing  chains  and  compromising  ways, 

When — just  my  luck — a  better  girl  was  courting  my  embraces. 


TO  MAECENAS 

MAECENAS,  thou  of  royalty's  descent, 

Both  my  protector  and  dear  ornament, 

Among  humanity's  conditions  are 

Those  who  take  pleasure  in  the  flying  car, 

Whirling  Olympian  dust,  as  on  they  roll, 

And  shunning  with  the  glowing  wheel  the  goal; 

While  the  ennobling  palm,  the  prize  of  worth, 

Exalts  them  to  the  gods,  the  lords  of  earth. 

Here  one  is  happy  if  the  fickle  crowd 

His  name  the  threefold  honor  has  allowed; 

And  there  another,  if  into  his  stores 

Comes  what  is  swept  from  Libyan  threshing-floors. 


364  ECHOES   FROM   THE   SABINE   FARM 

He  who  delights  to  till  his  father's  lands, 

And  grasps  the  delving-hoe  with  willing  hands, 

Can  never  to  Attalic  offers  hark, 

Or  cut  the  Myrtoan  Sea  with  Cyprian  bark. 

The  merchant,  timorous 'of  Afric's  breeze, 

When  fiercely  struggling  with  Icarian  seas 

Praises  the  restful  quiet  of  his  home, 

Nor  wishes  from  the  peaceful  fields  to  roam; 

Ah,  speedily  his  shattered  ships  he  mends, — 

To  poverty  his  lesson  ne'er  extends. 

One  there  may  be  who  never  scorns  to  fill 

His  cups  with  mellow  draughts  from  Massic's  hill, 

Nor  from  the  busy  day  an  hour  to  wean, 

Now  stretched  at  length  beneath  the  arbute  green, 

Now  at  the  softly  whispering  spring,  to  dream 

Of  the  fair  nymphs  who  haunt  the  sacred  stream. 

For  camp  and  trump  and  clarion  some  have  zest, — 

The  cruel  wars  the  mothers  so  detest. 

'Neath  the  cold  sky  the  hunter  spends  his  life, 

Unmindful  of  his  home  and  tender  wife, 

Whether  the  doe  is  seen  by  faithful  hounds 

Or  Marsian  boar  through  the  fine  meshes  bounds. 

But  as  for  me,  the  ivy-wreaths,  the  prize 
Of  learned  brows,  exalt  me  to  the  skies; 
The  shady  grove,  the  nymphs  and  satyrs  there, 
Draw  me  away  from  people  everywhere; 
If  it  may  be,  Euterpe's  flute  inspires, 
Or  Polyhymnia  strikes  the  Lesbian  lyres; 
And  if  you  place  me  where  no  bard  debars, 
With  head  exalted  I  shall  strike  the  stars! 


TO   HIS    BOOK  365 


TO  HIS  BOOK 

You  vain,  self-conscious  little  book, 
Companion  of  my  happy  days, 

How  eagerly  you  seem  to  look 
For  wider  fields  to  spread  your  lays; 

My  desk  and  locks  cannot  contain  you, 

Nor  blush  of  modesty  restrain  you. 

Well,  then,  begone,  fool  that  thou  art! 
But  do  not  come  to  me  and  cry, 

When  critics  strike  you  to  the  heart: 
"Oh,  wretched  little  book  am  I!" 

You  know  I  tried  to  educate  you 

To  shun  the  fate  that  must  await  you. 

In  youth  you  may  encounter  friends 
(Pray  this  prediction  be  not  wrong), 

But  wait  until  old  age  descends 
And  thumbs  have  smeared  your  gentlest  song; 

Then  will  the  moths  connive  to  eat  you 

And  rural  libraries  secrete  you. 

However,  should  a  friend  some  word 
Of  my  obscure  career  request, 

Tell  him  how  deeply  I  was  stirred 
To  spread  my  wings  beyond  the  nest; 

Take  from  my  years,  which  are  before  you, 

To  boom  my  merits,  I  implore  you. 

Tell  him  that  I  am  short  and  fat, 
Quick  in  my  temper,  soon  appeased, 

With  locks  of  gray, — but  what  of  that? 
Loving  the  sun,  with  nature  pleased. 

I  'm  more  than  four  and  forty,  hark  you, — 

But  ready  for  a  night  off,  mark  you! 


366  ECHOES    FROM   THE    SABINE    FARM 


FAME  vs.  RICHES 

THE  Greeks  had  genius, — 't  was  a  gift 

The  Muse  vouchsafed  in  glorious  measure; 

The  boon  of  Fame  they  made  their  aim 
And  prized  above  all  worldly  treasure. 

But  we, — how  do  we  train  our  youth  ? 

Not  in  the  arts  that  are  immortal, 
But  in  the  greed  for  gains  that  speed 

From  him  who  stands  at  Death's  dark  portal 

Ah,  when  this  slavish  love  of  gold 
Once  binds  the  soul  in  greasy  fetters, 

How  prostrate  lies, — how  droops  and  dies 
The  great,  the  noble  cause  of  letters! 


THE  LYRIC  MUSE 

I  LOVE  the  lyric  muse! 
For  when  mankind  ran  wild  in  grooves 

Came  holy  Orpheus  with  his  songs 
And  turned  men's  hearts  from  bestial  loves. 

From  brutal  force  and  savage  wrongs; 
Amphion,  too,  and  on  his  lyre 

Made  such  sweet  music  all  the  day 
That  rocks,  instinct  with  warm  desire, 

Pursued  him  in  his  glorious  way. 

I  love  the  lyric  muse! 
Hers  was  the  wisdom  that  of  yore 

Taught  man  the  rights  of  fellow  man, 
Taught  him  to  worship  God  the  more, 

And  to  revere  love's  holy  ban. 
Hers  was  the  hand  that  jotted  down 

The  laws  correcting  divers  wrongs; 
And  so  came  honor  and  renown 

To  bards  and  to  their  noble  songs. 


A  COUNTERBLAST   AGAINST   GARLIC  367 

I  love  the  lyric  muse! 
Old  Homer  sung  unto  the  lyre; 

Tyrtseus,  too,  in  ancient  days; 
Still  warmed  by  their  immortal  fire, 

How  doth  our  patriot  spirit  blaze! 
The  oracle,  when  questioned,  sings; 

So  our  first  steps  in  life  are  taught. 
In  verse  we  soothe  the  pride  of  kings, 

In  verse  the  drama  has  been  wrought. 

I  love  the  lyric  muse! 
Be  not  ashamed,  O  noble  friend, 

In  honest  gratitude  to  pay 
Thy  homage  to  the  gods  that  spend 

This  boon  to  charm  all  ill  away. 
With  solemn  tenderness  revere 

This  voiceful  glory  as  a  shrine 
Wherein  the  quickened  heart  may  hear 

The  counsels  of  a  voice  divine! 


A  COUNTERBLAST  AGAINST  GARLIC 

MAY  the  man  who  has  cruelly  murdered  his  sire — 

A  crime  to  be  punished  with  death — 
Be  condemned  to  eat  garlic  till  he  shall  expire 

Of  his  own  foul  and  venomous  breath! 
What  stomachs  these  rustics  must  have  who  can  eat 

This  dish  that  Canidia  made, 
Which  imparts  to  my  colon  a  torturous  heat, 

And  a  poisonous  look,  I  'm  afraid ! 

They  say  that  ere  Jason  attempted  to  yoke 

The  fire-breathing  bulls  to  the  plough 
He  smeared  his  whole  body  with  garlic, — a  joke 

Which  I  fully  appreciate  now. 
When  Medea  gave  Glauce  her  beautiful  dress, 

In  which  garlic  was  scattered  about, 
It  was  cruel  and  rather  low-down,  I  confess, 

But  it  settled  the  point  beyond  doubt. 


368  ECHOES   FROM   THE   SABINE   FARM 

On  thirsty  Apulia  ne'er  has  the  sun 

Inflicted  such  terrible  heat; 
As  for  Hercules'  robe,  although  poisoned,  't  was  fun 

When  compared  with  this  garlic  we  eat! 
Maecenas,  if  ever  on  garbage  like  this 

You  express  a  desire  to  be  fed, 
May  Mrs.  Maecenas  object  to  your  kiss, 

And  lie  at  the  foot  of  the  bed! 


AN  EXCUSE  FOR  LALAGE 

To  bear  the  yoke  not  yet  your  love's  submissive  neck  is  bent, 
To  share  a  husband's  toil,  or  grasp  his  amorous  intent; 
Over  the  fields,  in  cooling  streams,  the  heifer  longs  to  go, 
Now  with  the  calves  disporting  where  the  pussy-willows  grow. 

Give  up  your  thirst  for  unripe  grapes,  and,  trust  me,  you  shall  learn 
How  quickly  in  the  autumn  time  to  purple  they  will  turn. 
Soon  she  will  follow  you,  for  age  steals  swiftly  on  the  maid; 
And  all  the  precious  years  that  you  have  lost  she  will  have  paid. 

Soon  she  will  seek  a  lord,  beloved  as  Pholoe,  the  coy, 
Or  Chloris,  or  young  Gyges,  that  deceitful,  girlish  boy, 
Whom,  if  you  placed  among  the  girls,  and  loosed  his  flowing  locks, 
The  wondering  guests  could  not  decide  which  one  decorum  shocks. 


AN  APPEAL  TO  LYCE 

LYCE,  the  gods  have  heard  my  prayers,  as  gods  will  hear  the  dutiful, 

And  brought  old  age  upon  you,  though  you  still  affect  the  beautiful. 

You  sport  among  the  boys,  and  drink  and  chatter  on  quite  aim 
lessly; 

And  in  your  cups  with  quavering  voice  you  torment  Cupid  shame 
lessly. 


A   ROMAN   WINTER-PIECE  369 

For  blooming  Chia,  Cupid  has  a  feeling  more  than  brotherly; 
He  knows  a  handsaw  from  a  hawk  whenever  winds  are  southerly. 
He  pats  her  pretty  cheeks,  but  looks  on  you  as  a  monstrosity; 
Your  wrinkles  and  your  yellow  teeth  excite  his  animosity. 

For  jewels  bright  and  purple  Coan  robes  you  are  not  dressable; 

Unhappily  for  you,  the  public  records  are  accessible. 

Where  is  your  charm,  and  where  your  bloom  and  gait  so  firm 

and  sensible, 
That  drew  my  love  from  Cinara, — a  lapse  most  indefensible? 

To  my  poor  Cinara  in  youth  Death  came  with  great  celerity; 

Egad,  that  never  can  be  said  of  you  with  any  verity! 

The  old  crow  that  you  are,  the  teasing  boys  will  jeer,  compelling 

you 
To  roost  at  home.     Reflect,  all  this  is  straight  that  I  am  telling 

you. 


A  ROMAN  WINTER-PIECE 


SEE,  Thaliarch  mine,  how,  white  with  snow, 

Soracte  mocks  the  sullen  sky; 
How,  groaning  loud,  the  woods  are  bowed, 

And  chained  with  frost  the  rivers  lie. 

Pile,  pile  the  logs  upon  the  hearth; 

We  '11  melt  away  the  envious  cold: 
And,  better  yet,  sweet  friend,  we  '11  wet 

Our  whistles  with  some  four-year-old. 

Commit  all  else  unto  the  gods, 

Who,  when  it  pleaseth  them,  shall  bring 
To  fretful  deeps  and  wooded  steeps 

The  mild,  persuasive  grace  of  Spring. 

Let  not  To-morrow,  but  To-day, 
Your  ever  active  thoughts  engage; 


370  ECHOES   FROM   THE    SABINE   FARM 

Frisk,  dance,  and  sing,  and  have  your  fling, 
Unharmed,  unawed  of  crabbed  Age. 

Let 's  steal  content  from  Winter's  wrath, 
And  glory  in  the  artful  theft, 

That  years  from  now  folks  shall  allow 
'T  was  cold  indeed  when  we  got  left. 

So  where  the  whisperings  and  the  mirth 
Of  girls  invite  a  sportive  chap, 

Let's  fare  awhile, — aha,  you  smile; 
You  guess  my  meaning, — verbum  sap. 


A  ROMAN  WINTER-PIECE 

ii 

Now  stands  Soracte  white  with  snow,  now  bend  the  laboring  trees, 
And  with  the  sharpness  of  the  frost  the  stagnant  rivers  freeze. 
Pile  up  the  billets  on  the  hearth,  to  warmer  cheer  incline, 
And  draw,  my  Thaliarchus,  from  the  Sabine  jar  the  wine. 

The  rest  leave  to  the  gods,  who  still  the  fiercely  warring  wind, 
And  to  the  morrow's  store  of  good  or  evil  give  no  mind. 
Whatever  day  your  fortune  grants,  that  day  mark  up  for  gain; 
And  in  your  youthful  bloom  do  not  the  sweet  amours  disdain. 

Now  on  the  Campus  and  the  squares,  when  evening  shades  descend, 
Soft  whisperings  again  are  heard,  and  loving  voices  blend; 
And  now  the  low  delightful  laugh  betrays  the  lurking  maid, 
While  from  her  slowly  yielding  arms  the  forfeiture  is  paid. 


TO  DIANA 

O  VIRGIN,  tri-formed  goddess  fair, 
The  guardian  of  the  groves  and  hills, 

W7ho  hears  the  girls  in  their  despair 
Cry  out  in  childbirth's  cruel  ills, 
And  saves  them  from  the  Stygian  flow! 


TO   HIS   LUTE  371 

Let  the  pine-tree  my  cottage  near 

Be  sacred  to  thee  evermore, 
That  I  may  give  to  it  each  year 

With  joy  the  life-blood  of  the  boar, 
Now  thinking  of  the  sidelong  blow. 


TO  HIS  LUTE 

IF  ever  in  the  sylvan  shade 
A  song  immortal  we  have  made, 
Come  now,  O  lute,  I  prithee  come, 
Inspire  a  song  of  Latium! 

A  Lesbian  first  thy  glories  proved; 

In  arms  and  in  repose  he  loved 

To  sweep  thy  dulcet  strings,  and  raise 

His  voice  in  Love's  and  Liber's  praise. 

The  Muses,  too,  and  him  who  clings 

To  Mother  Venus'  apron-strings, 

And  Lycus  beautiful,  he  sung 

In  those  old  days  when  you  were  young. 

O  shell,  that  art  the  ornament 
Of  Phoebus,  bringing  sweet  content 
To  Jove,  and  soothing  troubles  all, — 
Come  and  requite  me,  when  I  call! 


TO  LEUCONOE 


WHAT  end  the  gods  may  have  ordained  for  me, 
And  what  for  thee, 

Seek  not  to  learn,  Leuconoe;  we  may  not  know 
Chaldean  tables  cannot  bring  us  rest 
'T  is  for  the  best 

To  bear  in  patience  what  may  come,  or  weal  or  woe. 


372  ECHOES   FROM   THE   SABINE   FARM 

If  for  more  winters  our  poor  lot  is  cast, 
Or  this  the  last, 

Which  on  the  crumbling  rocks  has  dashed  Etruscan  seas, 
Strain  clear  the  wine;   this  life  is  short,  at  best. 
Take  hope  with  zest, 

And,  trusting  not  To-morrow,  snatch  To-day  for  ease! 


TO  LEUCONOE 

ii 

SEEK  not,  Leuconoe,  to  know  how  long  you  're  going  to  live  yet, 
What  boons  the  gods  will  yet  withhold,  or  what  they  're  going  to 

give  yet; 

For  Jupiter  will  have  his  way,  despite  how  much  we  worry, — 
Some  will  hang  on  for  many  a  day,  and  some  die  in  a  hurry. 
The  wisest  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  embark  this  diem 
Upon  a  merry  escapade  with  some  such  bard  as  I  am. 
And  while  we  sport  I  '11  reel  you  off  such  odes  as  shall  surprise  ye; 
To-morrow,  when  the  headache  comes, — well,  then  I  '11  satirize  ye! 


TO  LIGURINUS 

i 

THOUGH  mighty  in  Love's  favor  still, 

Though  cruel  yet,  my  boy, 
When  the  unwelcome  dawn  shall  chill 

Your  pride  and  youthful  joy, 
The  hair  which  round  your  shoulder  grows 

Is  rudely  cut  away, 
Your  color,  redder  than  the  rose, 

Is  changed  by  youth's  decay, — 

Then,  Ligurinus,  in  the  glass 

Another  you  will  spy. 
And  as  the  shaggy  face,  alas! 

You  see,  your  grief  will  cry: 


TO    LIGURINUS  373 

"Why  in  my  youth  could  I  not  learn 

The  wisdom  men  enjoy? 
Or  why  to  men  cannot  return 

The  smooth  cheeks  of  the  boy?" 


TO  LIGURINUS 
ii 

O  CRUEL  fair, 
Whose  flowing  hair 
The  envy  and  the  pride  of  all  is, 
As  onward  roll 
The  years,  that  poll 
Will  get  as  bald  as  a  billiard  ball  is; 
Then  shall  your  skin,  now  pink  and  dimply, 
Be  tanned  to  parchment,  sear  and  pimply! 

When  you  behold 
Yourself  grown  old, 
These  words  shall  speak  your  spirits  moody; 

"Unhappy  one! 
What  heaps  of  fun 
I  've  missed  by  being  goody-goody ! 
Oh,  that  I  might  have  felt  the  hunger 
Of  loveless  age  when  I  was  younger!" 


THE  HAPPY  ISLES 

OH,  come  with  me  to  the  Happy  Isles 

In  the  golden  haze  off  yonder, 
Where  the  song  of  the  sun-kissed  breeze  beguiles 

And  the  ocean  loves  to  wander. 

Fragrant  the  vines  that  mantle  those  hills, 

Proudly  the  fig  rejoices, 
Merrily  dance  the  virgin  rills, 

Blending  their  myriad  voices. 


374  ECHOES   FROM   THE    SABINE   FARM 

Our  herds  shall  suffer  no  evil  there, 
But  peacefully  feed  and  rest  them; 

Never  thereto  shall  prowling  bear 
Or  serpent  come  to  molest  them. 

Neither  shall  Eurus,  wanton  bold, 
Nor  feverish  drought  distress  us. 

But  he  that  compasseth  heat  and  cold 
Shall  temper  them  both  to  bless  us. 

There  no  vandal  foot  has  trod, 

And  the  pirate  hordes  that  wander 

Shall  never  profane  the  sacred  sod 
Of  those  beautiful  isles  out  yonder. 

Never  a  spell  shall  blight  our  vines, 
Nor  Sirius  blaze  above  us, 

But  you  and  I  shall  drink  our  wines 
And  sing  to  the  loved  that  love  us. 

So  come  with  me  where  Fortune  smiles 
And  the  gods  invite  devotion, — 

Oh,  come  with  me  to  the  Happy  Isles 
In  the  haze  of  that  far-off  ocean! 


CONSISTENCY 

SHOULD  painter  attach  to  a  fair  human  head 
The  thick,  turgid  neck  of  a  stallion, 

Or  depict  a  spruce  lass  with  the  tail  of  a  bass, 
I  am  sure  you  would  guy  the  rapscallion. 

Believe  me,  dear  Pisos,  that  just  such  a  freak 
Is  the  crude  and  preposterous  poem 

Which  merely  abounds  in  a  torrent  of  sounds, 
With  no  depth  of  reason  below  Jem. 


TO   POSTTJMUS  375 

'T  is  all  very  well  to  give  license  to  art, — 

The  wisdom  of  license  defend  I; 
But  the  line  should  be  drawn  at  the  fripperish  spawn 

Of  a  mere  cacoethes  scribendi. 

It  is  too  much  the  fashion  to  strain  at  effects, — 
Yes,  that 's  what 's  the  matter  with  Hannah! 

Our  popular  taste,  by  the  tyros  debased, 
Paints  each  barnyard  a  grove  of  Diana! 

Should  a  patron  require  yt>u  to  paint  a  marine, 

Would  you  work  in  some  trees  with  their  barks  on? 

When  his  strict  orders  are  for  a  Japanese  jar, 
Would  you  give  him  a  pitcher  like  Clarkson? 

Now,  this  is  my  moral:   Compose  what  you  may, 

And  Fame  will  be  ever  far  distant 
Unless  you  combine  with  a  simple  design 

A  treatment  in  toto  consistent. 


TO  POSTUMUS 

O  POSTUMUS,  my  Postumus,  the  years  are  gliding  past, 
And  piety  will  never  check  the  wrinkles  coming  fast, 
The  ravages  of  time  old  age's  swift  advance  has  made, 
And  death,  which  unimpeded  comes  to  bear  us  to  the  shade. 

Old  friend,  although  the  tearless  Pluto  you  may  strive  to  please, 
And  seek  each  year  with  thrice  one  hundred  bullocks  to  appease 
Who  keeps  the  thrice-huge  Geryon  and  Tityus  his  slaves, 
Imprisoned  fast  forevermore  with  cold  and  sombre  waves, 

Yet  must  that  flood  so  terrible  be  sailed  by  mortals  all; 
Whether  perchance  we  may  be  kings  and  live  in  royal  hall, 
Or  lowly  peasants  struggling  long  with  poverty  and  dearth, 
Still  must  we  cross  who  live  upon  the  favors  of  the  earth. 


376  ECHOES   FKOM   THE    SABINE    FARM 

And  all  in  vain  from  bloody  war  and  contest  we  are  free, 

And  from  the  waves  that  hoarsely  break  upon  the  Adrian  Sea; 

For  our  frail  bodies  all  in  vain  our  helpless  terror  grows 

In  gloomy  autumn  seasons,  when  the  baneful  south  wind  blows. 

Alas!   the  black  Cocytus,  wandering  to  the  world  below, 
That  languid  river  to  behold  we  of  this  earth  must  go; 
To  see  the  grim  Danaides,  that  miserable  race, 
And  Sisyphus  of  ^Eolus,  condemned  to  endless  chase. 

Behind  you  must  you  leave  your  home  and  land  and  wife  so  dear, 
And  of  the  trees,  except  the  hated  cypresses,  you  rear, 
And  which  around  the  funeral  piles  as  signs  of  mourning  grow, 
Not  one  will  follow  you,  their  short-lived  master,  there  below. 

Your  worthier  heir  the  precious  Ctecuban  shall  drink  galore, 
Now  with  a  hundred  keys  preserved  and  guarded  in  your  store, 
And  stain  the  pavements,  pouring  out  in  waste  the  nectar  proud, 
Better  than  that  with  which  the  pontiffs'  feasts  have  been  endowed. 


TO  MISTRESS  PYRRHA 


WHAT  perfumed,  posie-dizened  sirrah, 

With  smiles  for  diet, 
Clasps  you,  O  fair  but  faithless  Pyrrha, 

On  the  quiet? 
For  whom  do  you  bind  up  your  tresses, 

As  spun-gold  yellow, — 
Meshes  that  go  with  your  caresses, 

To  snare  a  fellow? 

How  will  he  rail  at  fate  capricious, 

And  curse  you  duly, 
Yet  now  he  deems  your  wiles  delicious,- 

You  perfect,  truly! 


TO    MISTRESS    PYRRHA  377 

Pyrrha,  your  love  's  a  treacherous  ocean; 

He  '11  soon  fall  in  there! 
Then  shall  I  gloat  on  his  commotion, 

For  I  have  been  there! 


TO   MISTRESS   PYRRHA 
ii 

WHAT  dainty  boy  with  sweet  perfumes  bedewed 
Has  lavished  kisses,  Pyrrha,  in  the  cave? 
For  whom  amid  the  roses,  many-hued, 
Do  you  bind  back  your  tresses'  yellow  wave? 

How  oft  will  he  deplore  your  fickle  whim, 

And  wonder  at  the  storm  and  roughening  deeps, 

Who  now  enjoys  you,  all  in  all  to  him, 

And  dreams  of  you,  whose  only  thoughts  he  keeps. 

Wretched  are  they  to  whom  you  seem  so  fair; — 
That  I  escaped  the  storms,  the  gods  be  praised! 
My  dripping  garments,  offered  with  a  prayer, 
Stand  as  a  tablet  to  the  sea-god  raised. 


TO  MELPOMENE 

LOFTY  and  enduring  is  the  monument  I  've  reared: 

Come,  tempests,  with  your  bitterness  assailing; 
And  thou,  corrosive  blasts  of  time,  by  all  things  mortal  feared, 

Thy  buffets  and  thy  rage  are  unavailing! 

I  shall  not  altogether  die:   by  far  my  greater  part 
Shall  mock  man's  common  fate  in  realms  infernal; 

My  works  shall  live  as  tributes  to  my  genius  and  my  art, — 
My  works  shall  be  my  monument  eternal! 

While  this  great  Roman  empire  stands  and  gods  protect  our  fanes, 
Mankind  with  grateful  hearts  shall  tell  the  story 

How  one  most  lowly  born  upon  the  parched  Apulian  plains 
First  raised  the  native  lyric  muse  to  glory. 


378  ECHOES   FROM   THE    SABINE   FARM 

Assume,  revered  Melpomene,  the  proud  estate  I  've  won* 
And,  with  thine  own  dear  hand  the  meed  supplying, 

Bind  thou  about  the  forehead  of  thy  celebrated  son 
The  Delphic  laurel-wreath  of  fame  undying! 


TO  PHYLLIS 


COME,  Phyllis,  I  've  a  cask  of  wine 
That  fairly  reeks  with  precious  juices, 

And  in  your  tresses  you  shall  twine 
The  loveliest  flowers  this  vale  produces. 

My  cottage  wears  a  gracious  smile; 

The  altar,  decked  in  floral  glory, 
Yearns  for  the  lamb  which  bleats  the  while 

As  though  it  pined  for  honors  gory. 

Hither  our  neighbors  nimbly  fare, 

The  boys  agog,  the  maidens  snickering; 

And  savory  smells  possess  the  air, 

As  skyward  kitchen  flames  are  flickering. 

You  ask  what  means  this  grand  display, 
This  festive  throng  and  goodly  diet? 

Well,  since  you're  bound  to  have  your  way, 
I  don't  mind  telling,  on  the  quiet. 

'T  is  April  13,  as  you  know, 

A  day  and  month  devote  to  Venus, 

Whereon  was  born,  some  years  ago, 
My  very  worthy  friend,  Maecenas. 

Nay,  pay  no  heed  to  Telephus; 

Your  friends  agree  he  does  n't  love  you0 
The  way  he  flirts  convinces  us 

He  really  is  not  worthy  of  you. 


TO    PHYLLIS  379 

Aurora's  son,  unhappy  lad! 

You  know  the  fate  that  overtook  him? 
And  Pegasus  a  rider  had, — 

I  say  he  had,  before  he  shook  him! 

Hoc  docet  (as  you  must  agree) 

'T  is  meet  that  Phyllis  should  discover 

A  wisdom  in  preferring  me, 

And  mittening  every  other  lover. 

So  come,  O  Phyllis,  last  and  best 

Of  loves  with  which  this  heart 's  been  smitten, 
Come,  sing  my  jealous  fears  to  rest, 

And  let  your  songs  be  those  /  've  written. 


TO   PHYLLIS 
ii 

SWEET  Phyllis,  I  have  here  a  jar  of  old  and  precious  wine, 
The  years  which  mark  its  coming  from  the  Alban  hills  are  nine 
And  in  the  garden  parsley,  too,  for  wreathing  garlands  fair, 
And  ivy  in  profusion  to  bind  up  your  shining  hair. 

Now  smiles  the  house  with  silver;   the  altar,  laurel-bound, 
Longs  with  the  sacrificial  blood  of  lambs  to  drip  around; 
The  company  is  hurrying,  boys  and  maidens  with  the  rest; 
The  flames  are  flickering  as  they  whirl  the  dark  smoke  on  their  crest. 

Yet  you  must  know  the  joys  to  which  you  have  been  summoned  here 
To  keep  the  Ides  of  April,  to  the  sea-born  Venus  dear, — 
Ah,  festal  day  more  sacred  than  my  own  fair  day  of  birth, 
Since  from  its  dawn  my  loved  Maecenas  counts  his  years  of  earth. 

A  rich  and  wanton  girl  has  caught,  as  suited  to  her  mind, 

The  Telephus  whom  you  desire, — a  youth  not  of  your  kind. 

She   holds   him   bound   with  pleasing  chains,  the  fetters  of  her 

charms, — 
Remember  how  scorched  Phaethon  ambitious  hopes  alarms. 


380  ECHOES   FROM   THE   SABINE   FARM 

The  winged  Pegasus  the  rash  Bellerophon  has  chafed, 
To  you  a  grave  example  for  reflection  has  vouchsafed, — 
Always  to  follow  what  is  meet,  and  never  try  to  catch 
That  which  is  not  allowed  to  you,  an  inappropriate  match. 

Come  now,  sweet  Phyllis,  of  my  loves  the  last,  and  hence  the  best 
(For  nevermore  shall  other  girls  inflame  this  manly  breast) ; 
Learn  loving  measures  to  rehearse  as  we  may  stroll  along, 
And  dismal  cares  shall  fly  away  and  vanish  at  your  song. 


TO   CHLOE 


WHY  do  you  shun  me,  Chloe,  like  the  fawn, 
That,  fearful  of  the  breezes  and  the  wood, 

Has  sought  her  timorous  mother  since  the  dawn, 
And  on  the  pathless  mountain  tops  has  stood? 

Her  trembling  heart  a  thousand  fears  invites, 
Her  sinking  knees  with  nameless  terrors  shake,- 

Whether  the  rustling  leaf  of  spring  affrights, 
Or  the  green  lizards  stir  the  slumbering  brake. 

I  do  not  follow  with  a  tigerish  thought, 
Or  with  the  fierce  Gsetulian  lion's  quest; 

So,  quickly  leave  your  mother,  as  you  ought, 
Full  ripe  to  nestle  on  a  husband's  breast. 


TO  CHLOE 

ii 


CHLOE,  you  shun  me  like  a  hind 
That,  seeking  vainly  for  her  mother, 

Hears  danger  in  each  breath  of  wind, 
And  wildly  darts  this  way  and  t'  other; 


TO   CHLOE  381 

Whether  the  breezes  sway  the  wood 

Or  lizards  scuttle  through  the  brambles, 

She  starts,  and  off,  as  though  pursued, 
The  foolish,  frightened  creature  scrambles. 

But,  Chloe,  you  're  no  infant  thing 

That  should  esteem  a  man  an  ogre; 
Let  go  your  mother's  apron-string, 

And  pin  your  faith  upon  a  toga! 

in 

A   PARAPHRASE 

How  happens  it,  my  cruel  miss, 

You  're  always  giving  me  the  mitten? 

You  seem  to  have  forgotten  this: 
That  you  no  longer  are  a  kitten! 

A  woman  that  has  reached  the  years 

Of  that  which  people  call  discretion 
Should  put  aside  all  childish  fears 

And  see  in  courtship  no  transgression. 

A  mother's  solace  may  be  sweet, 

But  Hymen's  tenderness  is  sweeter; 
And  though  all  virile  love  be  meet, 

You  '11  find  the  poet's  love  is  metre. 

IV 
A  PARAPHRASE,   CIRCA    1715 

SINCE  Chloe  is  so  monstrous  fair, 
With  such  an  eye  and  such  an  air, 
What  wonder  that  the  world  complains 
When  she  each  am'rous  suit  disdains? 

Close  to  her  mother's  side  she  clings, 
And  mocks  the  death  her  folly  brings 
To  gentle  swains  that  feel  the  smarts 
Her  eyes  inflict  upon  their  hearts. 


382  ECHOES   FROM   THE   SABINE   FARM 

Whilst  thus  the  years  of  youth  go  by, 
Shall  Colin  languish,  Strephon  die? 
Nay,  cruel  nymph!   come,  choose  a  mate, 
And  choose  him  ere  it  be  too  late! 


A  PARAPHRASE,   BY   DR.   I.   W. 

WHY,  Mistress  Chloe,  do  you  bother 
With  prattlings  and  with  vain  ado 

Your  worthy  and  industrious  mother, 
Eschewing  them  that  come  to  woo? 

Oh,  that  the  awful  truth  might  quicken 
This  stern  conviction  to  your  breast: 

You  are  no  longer  now  a  chicken 
Too  young  to  quit  the  parent  nest. 

So  put  aside  your  froward  carriage, 

And  fix  your  thoughts,  whilst  yet  there's  time, 
Upon  the  righteousness  of  marriage 

With  some  such  godly  man  as  I  'm. 


VI 
A   PARAPHRASE,    BY   CHAUCER 

SYN  that  you,  Chloe,  to  your  moder  sticken, 
Maketh  all  ye  yonge  bacheloures  full  sicken; 
Like  as  a  lyttel  deere  you  ben  y-hiding 
Whenas  come  lovers  with  theyre  pityse  chiding. 
Sothly  it  ben  faire  to  give  up  your  moder 
For  to  beare  swete  company  with  some  oder; 
Your  moder  ben  well  enow  so  farre  shee  goeth, 
But  that  ben  not  farre  enow,  God  knoweth; 
Wherefore  it  ben  sayed  that  foolysh  ladyes 
That  marrye  not  shall  leade  an  aype  in  Hadys; 
But  all  that  do  with  gode  men  wed  full  quicklye 
When  that  they  be  on  dead  go  to  ye  seints  full  si.ckerly. 


TO   MAECENAS  383 


TO  MAECENAS 

THAN  you,  O  valued  friend  of  mine, 

A  better  patron  non  est! 
Come,  quaff  my  home-made  Sabine  wine,- 

You  '11  find  it  poor  but  honest. 

I  put  it  up  that  famous  day 

You  patronized  the  ballet, 
And  the  public  cheered  you  such  a  way 

As  shook  your  native  valley. 

Csecuban  and  the  Calean  brand 
May  elsewhere  claim  attention; 

But  I  have  none  of  these  on  hand, — 
For  reasons  I  '11  not  mention. 


ENVOY 

So,  come!  though  favors  I  bestow 

Cannot  be  called  extensive, 
Who  better  than  my  friend  should  know 

That  they  're  at  least  expensive  ? 


TO  BARINE 

IF  for  your  oath  broken,  or  word  lightly  spoken, 
A  plague  comes,  Barine,  to  grieve  you; 
If  on  tooth  or  on  finger  a  black  mark  shall  linger 
Your  beauty  to  mar,  I  '11  believe  you. 

But  no  sooner,  the  fact  is,  you  bind,  as  your  tact  is, 

Your  head  with  the  vows  of  untruth, 

Than  you  shine  out  more  charming,  and,  what 's  more 

alarming, 
You  come  forth  beloved  of  our  youth. 


384  ECHOES   FROM   THE   SABINE   FARM 

It  is  advantageous,  but  no  less  outrageous, 
Your  poor  mother's  ashes  to  cheat; 
While  the  gods  of  creation  and  each  constellatioL 
You  seem  to  regard  as  your  meat. 

Now  Venus,  I  own  it,  is  pleased  to  condone  it; 
The  good-natured  nymphs  merely  smile; 
And  Cupid  is  merry, — 't  is  humorous,  very, — 
And  sharpens  his  arrows  the  while. 

Our  boys  you  are  making  the  slaves  for  your  taking 
A  new  band  is  joined  to  the  old; 
While  the  horrified  matrons  your  juvenile  patrons 
In  vain  would  bring  back  to  the  fold. 

The  thrifty  old  fellows  your  loveliness  mellows 
Confess  to  a  dread  of  your  house; 
But  a  more  pressing  duty,  in  view  of  your  beauty, 
Is  the  young  wife's  concern  for  her  spouse. 


THE  RECONCILIATION 


i 

HE 


WHEN  you  were  mine,  in  auld  lang  syne, 
And  when  none  else  your  charms  might  ogle 

I  '11  not  deny,  fair  nymph,  that  I 
Was  happier  than  a  heathen  mogul. 


SHE 


Before  she  came,  that  rival  flame 
(Had  ever  mater  saucier  filia?), 

In  those  good  times,  bepraised  in  rhymes, 
I  was  more  famed  than  Mother  Ilia. 


THE   RECONCILIATION  385 

HE 
Chloe  of  Thrace!     With  what  a  grace 

Does  she  at  song  or  harp  employ  herl 
I  'd  gladly  die,  if  only  I 

Could  live  forever  to  enjoy  her! 

SHE 

My  Sybaris  so  noble  is 

That,  by  the  gods,  I  love  him  madly! 
That  I  might  save  him  from  the  grave, 

I  'd  give  my  life,  and  give  it  gladly! 

HE 

What  if  ma  belle  from  favor  fell, 

And  I  made  up  my  mind  to  shake  her; 

Would  Lydia  then  come  back  again, 
And  to  her  quondam  love  betake  her? 

SHE 

My  other  beau  should  surely  go, 

And  you  alone  should  find  .me  gracious; 

For  no  one  slings  such  odes  and  things 
As  does  the  lauriger  Horatius! 


THE  RECONCILIATION 
ii 

HORACE 

WHILE  favored  by  thy  smiles  no  other  youth  in  amorous  teasing 
Around  thy  snowy  neck  his  folding  arms  was  wont  to  fling; 

As  long  as  I  remained  your  love,  acceptable  and  pleasing, 
I  lived  a  life  of  happiness  beyond  the  Persian  king. 

LYDIA 

WThile  Lydia  ranked  Chloe  in  your  unreserved  opinion, 
And  for  no  other  cherished  thou  a  brighter,  livelier  flame, 

I,  Lydia,  distinguished  throughout  the  whole  dominion, 
Surpassed  the  Roman  Ilia  in  eminence  of  fame. 


386  ECHOES   FROM   THE   SABINE   FARM 

HORACE 

'T  is  now  the  Thracian  Chloe  whose  accomplishments  inthrall 
me, — 

So  sweet  in  modulations,  such  a  mistress  of  the  lyre. 
In  truth  the  fates,  however  terrible,  could  not  appall  me; 

If  they  would  spare  her,  sweet  my  soul,  I  gladly  would  expire. 

LYDIA 

And  now  the  son  of  Ornytus,  young  Calais,  inflames  me 
With  mutual,  restless  passion  and  an  all-consuming  fire; 

And  if  the  fates,  however  dread,  would  spare  the  youth  who  claims 

me, 
Not  only  once  would  I  face  death,  but  gladly  twice  expire. 

HORACE 

What  if  our  early  love  returns  to  prove  we  were  mistaken 

And  bind  with  brazen  yoke  the  twain,  to  part,  ah!  nevermore? 

What  if  the  charming  Chloe  of  the  golden  locks  be  shaken 
And  slighted  Lydia  again  glide  through  the  open  door? 

LYDIA 

Though  he  is  fairer  than  the  star  that  shines  so  far  above  you, 
Thou  lighter  than  a  cork,  more  stormy  than  the  Adrian  Sea, 

Still  should  I  long  to  live  with  you,   to  live  for  you  and   love 

you, 
And  cheerfully  see  death's  approach  if  thou  wert  near  to  me. 


THE  ROASTING  OF  LYDIA 

No  more  your  needed  rest  at  night 
By  ribald  youth  is  troubled; 

No  more  your  windows,  fastened  tight. 
Yield  to  their  knocks  redoubled. 


TO    GLYCERA  387 

No  longer  you  may  hear  them  cry, 

"Why  art  thou,  Lydia,  lying 
In  heavy  sleep  till  morn  is  nigh, 

While  I,  your  love,  am  dying?" 

Grown  old  and  faded,  you  bewail 

The  rake's  insulting  sally, 
While  round  your  home  the  Thracian  gale 

Storms  through  the  lonely  alley. 

What  furious  thoughts  will  fill  your  breast, 

What  passions,  fierce  and  tinglish 
(Cannot  be  properly  expressed 

In  calm,  reposeful  English). 

Learn  this,  and  hold  your  carping  tongue: 

Youth  will  be  found  rejoicing 
In  ivy  green  and  myrtle  young, 

The  praise  of  fresh  life  voicing; 

And  not  content  to  dedicate, 

With  much  protesting  shiver, 
The  sapless  leaves  to  winter's  mate, 

Hebrus,  the  cold  dark  river. 


TO   GLYCERA 

THE  cruel  mother  of  the  Loves, 

And  other  Powers  offended, 
Have  stirred  my  heart,  where  newly  roves 

The  passion  that  was  ended. 

JT  is  Glycera,  to  boldness  prone, 
Whose  radiant  beauty  fires  me; 

While  fairer  than  the  Parian  stone 
Her  dazzling  face  inspires  me. 


388  ECHOES   FROM   THE   SABINE   FARM 

And  on  from  Cyprus  Venus  speeds, 
Forbidding — ah!   the  pity — 

The  Scythian  lays,  the  Parthian  meeds, 
And  such  irrelevant  ditty. 

Here,  boys,  bring  turf  and  vervain  too; 

Have  bowls  of  wine  adjacent; 
And  ere  our  sacrifice  is  through 

She  may  be  more  complaisant. 


TO  LYDIA 


WHEN,  Lydia,  you  (once  fond  and  true, 
But  now  grown  cold  and  supercilious) 

Praise  Telly's  charms  of  neck  and  arms — 
Well,  by  the  dog!   it  makes  me  bilious! 

Then  with  despite  my  cheeks  wax  white, 
My  doddering  brain  gets  weak  and  giddy, 

My  eyes  o'erflow  with  tears  which  show 
That  passion  melts  my  vitals,  Liddy! 

Deny,  false  jade,  your  escapade, 

And,  lo!   your  wounded  shoulders  show  it! 
No  manly  spark  left  such  a  mark — 

Leastwise  he  surely  was  no  poet! 

With  savage  buss  did  Telephus 

Abrade  your  lips,  so  plump  and  mellow; 
As  you  would  save  what  Venus  gave, 

I  charge  you  shun  that  awkward  fellow! 

And  now  I  say  thrice  happy  they 
That  call  on  Hymen  to  requite  'em; 

For,  though  love  cools,  the  wedded  fools 
Must  cleave  till  death  doth  disunite  'em. 


TO    LYDIA  389 


TO  LYDIA 


ii 


WHEN  praising  Telephus  you  sing 
His  rosy  neck  and  waxen  arms, 

Forgetful  of  the  pangs  that  wring 
This  heart  for  my  neglected  charms. 

Soft  down  my  cheek  the  tear-drop  flows, 
My  color  comes  and  goes  the  while, 

And  my  rebellious  liver  glows, 

And  fiercely  swells  with  laboring  bile. 

Perchance  yon  silly,  passionate  youth, 
Distempered  by  the  fumes  of  wine, 

Has  marred  your  shoulder  with  his  tooth, 
Or  scarred  those  rosy  lips  of  thine. 

Be  warned;   he  cannot  faithful  prove, 
Who,  with  the  cruel  kiss  you  prize, 

Has  hurt  the  little  mouth  I  love, 
Where  Venus's  own  nectar  lies. 


Wliom  golden  links  unbroken  bind, 
Thrice  happy  —  more  than  thrice  are 

And  constant,  both  in  heart  and  mind, 
In  love  await  the  final  day. 


TO  QUINTIUS  HIRPINUS 

To  Scythian  and  Cantabrian  plots, 
Pay  them  no  heed,  O  Quintius! 

So  long  as  we 

From  care  are  free, 
Vexations  cannot  cinch  us. 


390  ECHOES   FROM  THE   SABINE  FARM 

Unwrinkled  youth  and  grace,  forsooth, 
Speed  hand  in  hand  together; 

The  songs  we  sing 

In  time  of  spring 
Are  hushed  in  wintry  weather. 

Why,  even  flow'rs  change  with  the  hours, 
And  the  moon  has  divers  phases; 

And  shall  the  mind 

Be  racked  to  find 
A  clew  to  Fortune's  mazes? 

Nay;   'neath  this  tree  let  you  and  me 
Woo  Bacchus  to  caress  us; 
We  're  old,  't  is  true, 
But  still  we  two 
Are  thoroughbreds,  God  bless  us! 

While  the  wine  gets  cool  in  yonder  pool, 
Let's  spruce  up  nice  and  tidy; 
Who  knows,  old  boy, 
But  we  may  decoy 
The  fair  but  furtive  Lyde  ? 

She  can  execute  on  her  ivory  lute 
Sonatas  full  of  passion, 
And  she  bangs  her  hair 
(Which  is  passing  fair) 
In  the  good  old  Spartan  fashion. 


WINE,  WOMEN,  AND  SONG 

O  VARUS  mine, 
Plant  thou  the  vine 

Within  this  kindly  soil  of  Tibur; 
Nor  temporal  woes, 
Nor  spiritual,  knows 

The  man  who  's  a  discreet  imbiber. 


AN   ODE  TO   FORTUNE  391 

For  who  doth  croak 

Of  being  broke, 
Or  who  of  warfare,  after  drinking? 

With  bowl  atween  us, 

Of  smiling  Venus 
And  Bacchus  shall  we  sing,  I  'm  thinking. 

Of  symptoms  fell 

Which  brawls  impel, 
Historic  data  give  us  warning; 

The  wretch  who  fights 

When  full,  of  nights, 
Is  bound  to  have  a  head  next  morning. 

I  do  not  scorn 

A  friendly  horn, 
But  noisy  toots,  I  can't  abide  'em! 

Your  howling  bat 

Is  stale  and  flat 
To  one  who  knows,  because  he  's  tried  'em! 

The  secrets  of 

The  life  I  love 
(Companionship  with  girls  and  toddy) 

I  would  not  drag 

With  drunken  brag 
Into  the  ken  of  everybody; 

But  in  the  shade 

Let  some  coy  maid 
With  smilax  wreathe  my  flagon's  nozzle, 

Then  all  day  long, 

With  mirth  and  song, 
Shall  I  enjoy  a  quiet  sozzle! 


AN  ODE  TO  FORTUNE 

O  LADY  FORTUNE!   't  is  to  thee  I  call, 
Dwelling  at  Antium,  thou  hast  power  to  crown 
The  veriest  clod  with  riches  and  renown, 


392  ECHOES    FROM   THE    SABINE    FARM 

And  change  a  triumph  to  a  funeral. 
The  tillers  of  the  soil  and  they  that  vex  the  seas; 
Confessing  thee  supreme,  on  bended  knees 

Invoke  thee,  all. 

Of  Dacian  tribes,  of  roving  Scythian  bands, 
Of  cities,  nations,  lawless  tyrants  red 
With  guiltless  blood,  art  thou  the  haunting  dread; 

Within  thy  path  no  human  valor  stands, 
And,  arbiter  of  empires,  at  thy  frown 
The  sceptre,  once  supreme,  slips  surely  down 

From  kingly  hands. 

Necessity  precedes  thee  in  thy  way; 
Hope  fawns  on  thee,  and  Honor,  too,  is  seen 
Dancing  attendance  with  obsequious  mien; 

But  with  what  coward  and  abject  dismay 
The  faithless  crowd  and  treacherous  wantons  fly 
When  once  their  jars  of  luscious  wine  run  dry, — 

Such  ingrates  they! 

Fortune,  I  call  on  thee  to  bless 
Our  king, — our  Caesar  girt  for  foreign  wars! 
Help  him  to  heal  these  fratricidal  scars 

That  speak  degenerate  shame  and  wickedness 
And  forge  anew  our  impious  spears  and  swords, 
Wherewith  we  may  against  barbarian  hordes 

Our  Past  redress! 


TO  A  JAR  OF  WINE 

O  GRACIOUS  jar, — my  friend,  my  twin, 
Born  at  the  time  when  I  was  born,— 
Whether  tomfoolery  you  inspire 
Or  animate  with  love's  desire, 

Or  flame  the  soul  with  bitter  scorn, 


TO   POMPEIUS   VARUS  393 

Or  lull  to  sleep,  O  jar  of  mine! 

Come  from  your  place  this  festal  day; 

Corvinus  hither  wends  his  way, 
And  there  's  demand  for  wine! 

Corvinus  is  the  sort  of  man 

Who  dotes  on  tedious  argument. 
An  advocate,  his  ponderous  pate 

Is  full  of  Blackstone  and  of  Kent; 
Yet  not  insensible  is  he, 
O  genial  Massic  flood!   to  thee. 
Why,  even  Cato  used  to  take 

A  modest,  surreptitious  nip 
At  meal-times  for  his  stomach's  sake, 

Or  to  forefend  la  grippe. 

How  dost  thou  melt  the  stoniest  hearts, 

And  bare  the  cruel  knave's  design; 
How  through  thy  fascinating  arts 

WTe  discount  Hope,  O  gracious  wine! 
And  passing  rich  the  poor  man  feels 
As  through  his  veins  thy  affluence  steals. 

Now,  prithee,  make  us  frisk  and  sing, 

And  plot  full  many  a  naughty  plot 
With  damsels  fair — nor  shall  we  care 

Whether  school  keeps  or  not! 
And  whilst  thy  charms  hold  out  to  burn 

We  shall  not  deign  to  go  to  bed, 

But  we  shall  paint  creation  red; 
So,  fill,  sweet  wine,  this  friend  of  mine, — 

My  lawyer  friend,  as  aforesaid. 


TO  POMPEIUS  VARUS 

POMPEY,  what  fortune  gives  you  back 

To  the  friends  and  the  gods  who  love  you? 

Once  more  you  stand  in  your  native  land, 
With  your  native  sky  above  you. 


394  ECHOES   FROM   THE    SABINE   FARM 

Ah,  side  by  side,  in  years  agone, 
We  've  faced  tempestuous  weather, 
And  often  quaffed 
The  genial  draught 
From  the  same  canteen  together. 

When  honor  at  Philippi  fell 
A  prey  to  brutal  passion, 
I  regret  to  say  that  my  feet  ran  away 

In  swift  Iambic  fashion. 
You  were  no  poet;   soldier  born, 

You  stayed,  nor  did  you  wince  then. 
Mercury  came 
To  my  help,  which  same 
Has  frequently  saved  me  since  then. 

But  now  you  're  back,  let 's  celebrate 

In  the  good  old  way  and  classic; 
Come,  let  us  lard  our  skins  with  nard, 

And  bedew  our  souls  with  Massic! 
With  fillets  of  green  parsley  leaves 
Our  foreheads  shall  be  done  up; 
And  with  song  shall  we 
Protract  our  spree 
Until  the  morrow's  sun-up. 


THE  POET'S  METAMORPHOSIS 

M^CENAS,  I  propose  to  fly 

To  realms  beyond  these  human  portals; 
No  common  things  shall  be  my  wings, 

But  such  as  sprout  upon  immortals. 

Of  lowly  birth,  once  shed  of  earth, 

Your  Horace,  precious  (so  you  've  told  him), 
Shall  soar  away;   no  tomb  of  clay 

Nor  Stygian  prison-house  shall  hold  him. 


TO   VENUS  395 

Upon  my  skin  feathers  begin 

To  warn  the  songster  of  his  fleeting; 
But  never  mind,  I  leave  behind 

Songs  all  the  world  shall  keep  repeating. 

Lo!   Boston  girls,  with  corkscrew  curls, 
And  husky  westerns,  wild  and  woolly, 

And  southern  climes  shall  vaunt  my  rhymes, 
And  all  profess  to  know  me  fully. 

Methinks  the  West  shall  know  me  best, 
And  therefore  hold  my  memory  dearer; 

For  by  that  lake  a  bard  shall  make 
My  subtle,  hidden  meanings  clearer. 

So  cherished,  I  shall  never  die; 

Pray,  therefore,  spare  your  dolesome  praises, 
Your  elegies,  and  plaintive  cries, 

For  I  shall  fertilize  no  daisies! 


TO  VENUS 

VENUS,  dear  Cnidian-Paphian  queen! 

Desert  that  Cyprus  way  off  yonder, 
And  fare  you  hence,  where  with  incense 

My  Glycera  would  have  you  fonder; 
And  to  your  joy  bring  hence  your  boy, 

The  Graces  with  unbelted  laughter, 
The  Nymphs,  and  Youth, — then,  then,  in  sooth. 

Should  Mercury  come  tagging  after. 


396  ECHOES   FROM   THE    SABINE    FARM 

IN  THE  SPRINGTIME 


'T  is  spring!   The  boats  bound  to  the  sea; 

The  breezes,  loitering  kindly  over 
The  fields,  again  bring  herds  and  men 

The  grateful  cheer  of  honeyed  clover. 

Now  Venus  hither  leads  her  train; 

The  Nymphs  and  Graces  join  in  orgies; 
The  moon  is  bright,  and  by  her  light 

Old  Vulcan  kindles  up  his  forges. 

Bind  myrtle  now  about  your  brow, 

And  weave  fair  flowers  in  maiden  tresses; 

Appease  god  Pan,  who,  kind  to  man, 
Our  fleeting  life  with  affluence  blesses; 

But  let  the  changing  seasons  mind  us, 

That  Death  's  the  certain  doom  of  mortals,- 

Grim  Death,  who  waits  at  humble  gates, 
And  likewise  stalks  though  kingly  portals. 

Soon,  Sestius,  shall  Plutonian  shades 
Enfold  you  with  their  hideous  seemings; 

Then  love  and  mirth  and  joys  of  earth 
Shall  fade  away  like  fevered  dreamings. 


IN  THE  SPRINGTIME 
ii 

THE  western  breeze  is  springing  up,  the  ships  are  in  the  bay, 
And  spring  has  brought  a  happy  change  as  winter  melts  away. 
No  more  in  stall  or  fire  the  herd  or  ploughman  finds  delight; 
No  longer  with  the  biting  frosts  the  open  fields  are  white. 

Our  Lady  of  Cythera  now  prepares  to  lead  the  dance, 
While  from  above  the  kindly  moon  gives  an  approving  glance; 
The  Nymphs  and  comely  Graces  join  with  Venus  and  the  choir, 
And  Vulcan's  glowing  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  fire. 


TO    A    BULLY  397 

Now  it  is  time  with  myrtle  green  to  crown  the  shining  pate, 
And  with  the  early  blossoms  of  the  spring  to  decorate; 
To  sacrifice  to  Faunus,  on  whose  favor  we  rely, 
A  sprightly  lamb,  mayhap  a  kid,  as  he  may  specify. 

Impartially  the  feet  of  Death  at  huts  and  castles  strike; 
The  influenza  carries  off  the  rich  and  poor  alike. 
O  Sestius,  though  blessed  you  are  beyond  the  common  run, 
Life  is  too  short  to  cherish  e'en  a  distant  hope  begun. 

The  Shades  and  Pluto's  mansion  follow  hard  upon  the  grip. 
Once  there  you  cannot  throw  the  dice,  nor  taste  the  wine  you  sip; 
Nor  look  on"  blooming  Lycidas,  whose  beauty  you  commend, 
To  whom  the  girls  will  presently  their  courtesies  extend. 


TO  A  BULLY 

You,  blatant  coward  that  you  are, 
Upon  the  helpless  vent  your  spite. 

Suppose  you  ply  your  trade  on  me; 

Come,  monkey  with  this  bard,  and  see 
How  I  '11  repay  your  bark  with  bite! 

Ay,  snarl  just  once  at  me,  you  brute! 

And  I  shall  hound  you  far  and  wide, 
As  fiercely  as  through  drifted  snow 
The  shepherd  dog  pursues  what  foe 

Skulks  on  the  Spartan  mountain-side. 

The  chip  is  on  my  shoulder — see? 

But  touch  it  and  I  '11  raise  your  fur; 
I  'm  full  of  business,  so  beware ! 
For,  though  I  'm  loaded  up  for  bear, 

I  'm  quite  as  like  to  kill  a  cur! 


398  ECHOES   FROM   THE   SABINE   FARM 


TO  MOTHER  VENUS 

0  MOTHER  VENUS,  quit,  I  pray, 
Your  violent  assailing! 

The  arts,  forsooth,  that  fired  my  youth 

At  last  are  unavailing; 
My  blood  runs  cold,  I  'm  getting  old, 

And  all  my  powers  are  failing. 

Speed  thou  upon  thy  white  swan's  wings, 
And  elsewhere  deign  to  mellow 

With  thy  soft  arts  the  anguished  hearts 
Of  swains  that  writhe  and  bellow; 

And  right  away  seek  out,  I  pray, 
Young  Paullus, — he  's  your  fellow! 

You  '11  find  young  Paullus  passing  fair, 

Modest,  refined,  and  tony; 
Go,  now,  incite  the  favored  wight! 

With  Venus  for  a  crony 
He  '11  outshine  all  at  feast  and  ball 

And  conversazione! 

Then  shall  that  godlike  nose  of  thine 

With  perfumes  be  requited, 
And  then  shall  prance  in  Salian  dance 

The  girls  and  boys  delighted, 
And  while  the  lute  blends  with  the  flute 

Shall  tender  loves  be  plighted. 

But  as  for  me,  as  you  can  see, 
I  'm  getting  old  and  spiteful. 

1  have  no  mind  to  female  kind, 
That  once  I  deemed  delightful; 

No  more  brim  up  the  festive  cup 
That  sent  me  home  at  night  full. 

Why  do  I  falter  in  my  speech, 
O  cruel  Ligurine? 


TO    LYDIA  399 

Why  do  I  chase  from  place  to  place 

In  weather  wet  and  shiny  ? 
Why  down  my  nose  forever  flows 

The  tear  that 's  cold  and  briny  ? 


TO  LYDIA 

TELL  me,  Lydia,  tell  me  why, 

By  the  gods  that  dwell  above, 

Sybaris  makes  haste  to  die 

Through  your  cruel,  fatal  love. 

Now  he  hates  the  sunny  plain; 

Once  he  loved  its  dust  and  heat. 
Now  no  more  he  leads  the  train 

Of  his  peers  on  coursers  fleet. 

Now  he  dreads  the  Tiber's  touch, 

And  avoids  the  wrestling-rings, — 

He  who  formerly  was  such 

An  expert  with  quoits  and  things. 

Come,  now,  Mistress  Lydia,  say 

Why  your  Sybaris  lies  hid, 
Why  he  shuns  the  martial  play, 
As  we  're  told  Achilles  did. 


TO  NEOBULE 

A  SORRY  life,  forsooth,  these  wretched  girls  are  undergoing, 
Restrained  from  draughts  of  pleasant  wine,  from  loving  favors 

showing, 
For  fear  an  uncle's  tongue  a  reprimand  will  be  bestowing! 

Sweet  Cytherea's  winged  boy  deprives  you  of  your  spinning, 
And  Hebrus,  Neobule,  his  sad  havoc  is  beginning, 
Just  as  Minerva  thriftily  gets  ready  for  an  inning. 


400  ECHOES   FROM   THE    SABINE   FARM 

Who  could  resist  this  gallant  youth,  as  Tiber's  waves  he  breasted, 
Qr  when  the  palm  of  riding  from  Bellerophon  he  wrested, 
Or  when  with  fists  and  feet  the  sluggers  easily  he  bested  ? 

He  shot  the  fleeting  stags  with  regularity  surprising; 

The  way  he  intercepted  boars  was  quite  beyond  surmising,— 

No  wonder  that  your  thoughts  this  youth  has  been  monopolizing! 

So  I  repeat  that  with  these  maids  fate  is  unkindly  dealing, 
Who  never  can  in  love's  affair  give  license  to  their  feeling, 
Or  share  those  sweet  emotions  when  a  gentle  jag  is  stealing. 


AT  THE  BALL  GAME 

WHAT  gods  or  heroes,  whose  brave  deeds  none  can  dispute, 
Will  you  record,  O  Clio,  on  the  harp  and  flute  ? 
What  lofty  names  shall  sportive  Echo  grant  a  place 
On  Pindus'  crown  or  Helicon's  cool,  shadowy  space  ? 

Sing  not,  my  Orpheus,  sweeping  oft  the  tuneful  strings, 
Of  gliding  streams  and  nimble  winds  and  such  poor  things; 
But  lend  your  measures  to  a  theme  of  noble  thought, 
And  crown  with  laurel  these  great  heroes,  as  you  ought. 

Now  steps  Ryanus  forth  at  call  of  furious  Mars, 

And  from  his  oaken  staff  the  sphere  speeds  to  the  stars; 

And  now  he  gains  the  tertiary  goal,  and  turns, 

While  whiskered  balls  play  round  the  timid  staff  of  Burns. 

Lo!  from  the  tribunes  on  the  bleachers  comes  a  shout, 

Beseeching  bold  Ansonius  to  line  'em  out; 

And  as  Apollo's  flying  chariot  cleaves  the  sky, 

So  stanch  Ansonius  lifts  the  frightened  ball  on  high. 

Like  roar  of  ocean  beating  on  the  Cretan  cliff, 
The  strong  Komiske  gives  the  panting  sphere  a  biff; 
And  from  the  tribunes  rise  loud  murmurs  everywhere, 
When  twice  and  thrice  Mikellius  beats  the  mocking  air. 


EPILOGUE  401 

And  as  Achilles'  fleet  the  Trojan  waters  sweeps, 
So  horror  sways  the  throng, — Pfefferius  sleeps! 
And  stalwart  Konnor,  though  by  Mercury  inspired, 
The  Equus  Carolus  defies,  and  is  retired. 

So  waxes  fierce  the  strife  between  these  godlike  men; 
And  as  the  hero's  fame  grows  by  Virgilian  pen, 
So  let  Clarksonius  Maximus  be  raised  to  heights 
As  far  above  the  moon  as  moon  o'er  lesser  lights. 

But  as  for  me,  the  ivy  leaf  is  my  reward, 
If  you  a  place  among  the  lyric  bards  accord; 
With  crest  exalted,  and  O  "People,"  with  delight, 
I  '11  proudly  strike  the  stars,  and  so  be  out  of  sight. 


EPILOGUE 

THE  day  is  done;   and,  lo!   the  shades 
Melt  'neath  Diana's  mellow  grace. 

Hark,  how  those  deep,  designing  maids 
Feign  terror  in  this  sylvan  place! 

Come,  friends,  it 's  time  that  we  should  go; 

We  're  honest  married  folk,  you  know. 

Was  not  the  wine  delicious  cool 

Whose  sweetness  Pyrrha's  smile  enhanced? 
And  by  that  clear  Bandusian  pool 

How  gayly  Chloe  sung  and  danced! 
And  Lydia  Die, — aha,  methinks 
You  '11  not  forget  the  saucy  minx! 

But,  oh,  the  echoes  of  those  songs 

That  soothed  our  cares  and  lulled  our  hearts! 
Not  to  that  age  nor  this  belongs 

The  glory  of  what  heaven-born  arts 
Speak  with  the  old  distinctive  charm 
From  yonder  humble  Sabine  farm! 


402  ECHOES   FROM   THE   SABINE   FARM 

The  day  is  done.     Now  off  to  bed, 
Lest  by  some  rural  ruse  surprised, 

And  by  those  artful  girls  misled, 
You  two  be  sadly  compromised. 

You  go;   perhaps  I  'd  better  stay 

To  shoo  the  giddy  things  away! 

But  sometime  we  shall  meet  again 
Beside  Digentia,  cool  and  clear, — 

You  and  we  twain,  old  friend;   and  then 
We  '11  have  our  fill  of  pagan  cheer. 

Then,  could  old  Horace  join  us  three, 

How  proud  and  happy  he  would  be  I 

Or  if  we  part  to  meet  no  more 
This  side  the  misty  Stygian  Sea, 

Be  sure  of  this:   on  yonder  shore 
Sweet  cheer  awaiteth  such  as  we; 

A  Sabine  pagan's  heaven,  O  friend, — • 

The  fellowship  that  knows  no  end! 


LYDIA  DICK 

WHEN  I  was  a  boy  at  college, 
Filling  up  with  classic  knowledge, 

Frequently  I  wondered  why 
Old  Professor  Demas  Bentley 
Used  to  praise  so  eloquently 

"  Opera  Horatii." 

Toiling  on  a  season  longer 

Till  my  reasoning  powers  got  stronger, 

As  my  observation  grew, 
I  became  convinced  that  mellow, 
Massic-loving  poet  fellow, 

Horace,  knew  a  thing  or  two. 


LYDIA   DICK  403 

Yes,  we  sophomores  figured  duly 
That,  if  we  appraised  him  truly, 

Horace  must  have  been  a  brick; 
And  no  wonder  that  with  ranting 
Rhymes  he  went  a-gallivanting 

Round  with  sprightly  Lydia  Dick! 

For  that  pink  of  female  gender 
Tall  and  shapely  was,  and  slender, 

Plump  of  neck  and  bust  and  arms; 
While  the  raiment  that  invested 
Her  so  jealously  suggested 

Certain  more  potential  charms. 

Those  dark  eyes  of  hers  that  fired  him, 
Those  sweet  accents  that  inspired  him, 

And  her  crown  of  glorious  hair, — 
These  things  baffle  my  description: 
I  should  have  a  fit  conniption 

If  I  tried;   so  I  forbear. 

Maybe  Lydia  had  her  betters; 
Anyway,  this  man  of  letters 

Took  that  charmer  as  his  pick. 
Glad — yes,  glad  I  am  to  know  it! 
I,  a  fin  de  siecle  poet, 

Sympathize  with  Lydia  Dick! 

Often  in  my  arbor  shady 
I  fall  thinking  of  that  lady, 

And  the  pranks  she  used  to  play; 
And  I  'm  cheered, — for  all  we  sages 
Joy  when  from  those  distant  ages 

Lydia  dances  down  our  way. 

Otherwise  some  folks  might  wonder, 
With  good  reason,  why  in  thunder 

Learned  professors,  dry  and  prim, 
Find  such  solace  in  the  giddy 
Pranks  that  Horace  played  with  Liddy 

Or  that  Liddy  played  on  him. 


404  ECHOES   FROM   THE   SABINE   FARM 

Still  this  world  of  ours  rejoices 
In  those  ancient  singing  voices, 

And  our  hearts  beat  high  and  quick, 
To  the  cadence  of  old  Tiber 
Murmuring  praise  of  roistering  Liber 

And  of  charming  Lydia  Dick. 

Still  Digentia,  downward  flowing, 
Prattleth  to  the  roses  blowing 

By  the  dark,  deserted  grot. 
Still  Soracte,  looming  lonely, 
Watcheth  for  the  coming  only 

Of  a  ghost  that  coineth  not. 


IN  PRAISE  OF  CONTENTMENT 

I  HATE  the  common,  vulgar  herd! 

Away  they  scamper  when  I  "booh"  em  I 
But  pretty  girls  and  nice  young  men 
Observe  a  proper  silence  when 

I  choose  to  sing  my  lyrics  to  'em. 

The  kings  of  earth,  whose  fleeting  pow'r 
Excites  our  homage  and  our  wonder, 

Are  precious  small  beside  old  Jove, 

The  father  of  us  all,  who  drove 

The  giants  out  of  sight,  by  thunder! 

This  man  loves  farming,  that  man  lav,, 
While  this  one  follows  pathways  martial- 

What  boots  it  whither  mortals  turn  ? 

Grim  fate  from  her  mysterious  urn 

Doles  out  the  lots  with  hand  impartial. 

Nor  sumptuous  feasts  nor  studied  sports 
Delight  the  heart  by  care  tormented; 


IN    PRAISE    OF   CONTENTMENT  405 

The  mightiest  monarch  knoweth  not 
The  peace  that  to  the  lowly  cot 

Sleep  bringeth  to  the  swain  contented. 

On  him  untouched  of  discontent 

Care  sits  as  lightly  as  a  feather; 
He  does  n't  growl  about  the  crops, 
Or  worry  when  the  market  drops, 

Or  fret  about  the  changeful  weather. 

Not  so  with  him  who,  rich  in  fact, 

Still  seeks  his  fortune  to  redouble; 
Though  dig  he  deep  or  build  he  high, 
Those  scourges  twain  shall  lurk  anigh — 

Relentless  Care,  relentless  Trouble! 

If  neither  palaces  nor  robes 

Nor  unguents  nor  expensive  toddy 
Insure  Contentment's  soothing  bliss, 
Why  should  I  build  an  edifice 

Where  Envy  comes  to  fret  a  body? 

Nay,  I  'd  not  share  your  sumptuous  cheer, 

But  rather  sup  my  rustic  pottage, 
While  that  sweet  boon  the  gods  bestow — 
The  peace  your  mansions  cannot  know — 

Blesseth  my  lowly  Sabine  cottage. 


VARIOUS  TRANSLATIONS 


UHLAND'S  WHITE  STAG 

INTO  the  woods  three  huntsmen  came, 
Seeking  the  white  stag  for  their  game. 

They  laid  them  under  a  green  fir-tree 

And  slept,  and  dreamed  strange  things  to  see. 

(FIRST  HUNTSMAN) 

I  dreamt  I  was  beating  the  leafy  brush, 
When  out  popped  the  noble  stag — hush,  hush! 

(SECOND  HUNTSMAN) 

As  ahead  of  the  clamorous  pack  he  sprang, 
I  pelted  him  hard  in  the  hide — piff,  bang! 

(THIRD  HUNTSMAN) 

And  as  that  stag  lay  dead  I  blew 
On  my  horn  a  lusty  tir-ril- la-loo! 

So  speak  the  three  as  there  they  lay 
When  lo!   the  white  stag  sped  that  way, 

Frisked  his  heels  at  those  huntsmen  three, 
Then  leagues  o'er  hill  and  dale  was  he — 
Hush,  hush!   Piff,  bang!     Tir-ril-la-loo! 
406 


A    PARAPHRASE    OF    HEINE  407 

A  PARAPHRASE  OF  HEINE 
(LYRIC  INTERMEZZO) 

THERE  fell  a  star  from  realms  above — 

A  glittering,  glorious  star  to  seel 
Methought  it  was  the  star  of  love, 

So  sweetly  it  illumined  me. 

And  from  the  apple  branches  fell 

Blossoms  and  leaves  that  time  in  June; 

The  wanton  breezes  wooed  them  well 
With  soft  caress  and  amorous  tune. 

The  white  swan  proudly  sailed  along 
And  vied  her  beauty  with  her  note — 

The  river,  jealous  of  her  song, 

Threw  up  its  arms  to  clasp  her  throat. 

But  now — oh,  now  the  dream  is  past — 
The  blossoms  and  the  leaves  are  dead, 

The  swan's  sweet  song  is  hushed  at  last, 
And  not  a  star  burns  overhead. 


OLD  SPANISH  SONG  . 

I  'M  thinking  of  the  wooing 

That  won  my  maiden  heart 
When  he — he  came  pursuing 

A  love  unused  to  art. 
Into  the  drowsy  river 

The  moon  transported  flung 
Her  soul  that  seemed  to  quiver 

With  the  songs  my  lover  sung. 
And  the  stars  in  rapture  twinkled 

On  the  slumbrous  world  below- 
You  see  that,  old  and  wrinkled, 

I  'm  not  forgetful — no! 


408  VARIOUS   TRANSLATIONS 

He  still  should  be  repeating 

The  vows  he  uttered  then — 
Alas!   the  years,  though  fleeting? 

Are  truer  yet  than  men! 
The  summer  moonlight  glistens 

In  the  favorite  trysting  spot 
Where  the  river  ever  listens 

For  a  song  it  heareth  not. 
And  I,  whose  head  is  sprinkled 

With  time's  benumbing  snow, 
I  languish,  old  and  wrinkled, 

But  not  forgetful — no! 

What  though  he  elsewhere  turneth 

To  beauty  strangely  bold? 
Still  in  my  bosom  burneth 

The  tender  fire  of  old; 
And  the  words  of  love  he  told  me 

And  the  songs  he  sung  me  then 
Come  crowding  to  uphold  me, 

And  I  live  my  youth  again! 
For  when  love's  feet  have  tinkled 

On  the  pathway  women  go, 
Though  one  be  old  and  wrinkled, 

She  's  not  forgetful — no! 


UHLAND'S  "CHAPEL" 

YONDER  stands  the  hillside  chapel 
'Mid  the  evergreens  and  rocks, 

All  day  long  it  hears  the  song 
Of  the  shepherd  to  his  flocks. 

Then  the  chapel  bell  goes  tolling— 
Knelling  for  a  soul  that 's  sped; 

Silent  and  sad  the  shepherd  lad 
Hears  the  requiem  for  the  dead. 


A   HEINE    LOVE   SONG  409 

Shepherd,  singers  of  the  valley, 

Voiceless  now,  speed  on  before; 
Soon  shall  knell  that  chapel  bell 

For  the  songs  you  '11  sing  no  more. 


A  HEINE  LOVE  SONG 

THE  image  of  the  moon  at  night 
All  trembling  in  the  ocean  lies, 

But  she,  with  calm  and  steadfast  light, 
Moves  proudly  through  the  radiant  skies. 

How  like  the  tranquil  moon  thou  art — 
Thou  fairest  flower  of  womankind! 

And,  look,  within  my  fluttering  heart 
Thy  image  trembling  is  enshrined! 


BERANGER'S   "TO  MY  OLD  COAT." 

STILL  serve  me  in  my  age,  I  pray, 

As  in  my  youth,  O  faithful  one; 
For  years  I  've  brushed  thee  every  day — 

Could  Socrates  have  better  done? 
What  though  the  fates  would  wreak  on  thee 

The  fulness  of  their  evil  art  ? 
Use  thou  philosophy,  like  me — 

And  we,  old  friend,  shall  never  part! 

I  think — I  often  think  of  it — 

The  day  we  twain  first  faced  the  crowd; 
My  roistering  friends  impeached  your  fit, 

But  you  and  I  were  very  proud! 
Those  jovial  friends  no  more  make  free 

With  us  (no  longer  new  and  smart), 
But  rather  welcome  you  and  me 

As  loving  friends  that  should  not  part. 


410  VARIOUS   TRANSLATIONS 

The  patch  ?     Oh,  yes — one  happy  night — 

"Lisette,"  says  I,  "it 's  time  to  go"— 
She  clutched  this  sleeve  to  stay  my  flight, 

Shrieking:     "What!   leave  so  early?   No!" 
To  mend  the  ghastly  rent  she  'd  made, 

Three  days  she  toiled,  dear  patient  heart! 
And  I — right  willingly  I  stayed — 

Lisette  decreed  we  should  not  part! 

No  incense  ever  yet  profaned 

This  honest,  shiny  warp  of  thine, 
Nor  hath  a  courtier's  eye  disdained 

Thy  faded  hue  and  quaint  design; 
Let  servile  flattery  be  the  price 

Of  ribbons  in  the  royal  mart — 
A  roadside  posie  shall  suffice 

For  us  two  friends  that  must  not  part! 

Fear  not  the  recklessness  of  yore 

Shall  reoccur  to  vex  thee  now; 
Alas,  I  am  a  youth  no  more — 

I  'm  old  and  sere,  and  so  art  thou! 
So  bide  with  me  unto  the  last 

And  with  thy  warmth  caress  this  heart 
That  pleads,  by  memories  of  the  Past, 

That  two  such  friends  should  never  part! 


A  SPRING  POEM  FROM  BION 

ONE  asketh: 

"Tell  me,  Myrson,  tell  me  true: 
What 's  the  season  pleaseth  you  ? 
Is  it  summer  suits  you  best, 
When  from  harvest  toil  we  rest? 
Is  it  autumn  with  its  glory 
Of  all  surfeited  desires  ? 


MOTHER    AND    SPHINX  411 

Is  it  winter,  when  with  story 

And  with  song  we  hug  our  fires  ? 
Or  is  spring  most  fair  to  you — 
Come,  good  Myrson,  tell  me  true!" 

Another  answereth: 
"What  the  gods  in  wisdom  send 
We  should  question  not,  my  friend; 
Yet,  since  you  entreat  of  me, 
I  will  answer  reverently: 

Me  the  summertime  displeases, 
For  its  sun  is  scorching  hot; 
Autumn  brings  such  dire  diseases 

That  perforce  I  like  it  not; 
As  for  biting  winter,  oh! 
How  I  hate  its  ice  and  snow! 

"But,  thrice  welcome,  kindly  spring, 
With  the  myriad  gifts  you  bring! 
Not  too  hot  nor  yet  too  cold, 
Graciously  your  charms  unfold — 

Oh,  your  days  are  like  the  dreaming 
Of  those  nights  which  love  beseems, 

And  your  nights  have  all  the  seeming 

Of  those  days  of  golden  dreams! 
Heaven  smiles  down  on  earth,  and  then 
Earth  smiles  up  to  heaven  again!" 


MOTHER  AND  SPHINX 

(EGYPTIAN  FOLK-SONG) 

GRIM  is  the  face  that  looks  into  the  night 

Over  the  stretch  of  sands; 
A  sullen  rock  in  a  sea  of  white — 
A  ghostly  shadow  in  ghostly  light, 

Peering  and  moaning  it  stands. 
"Oh,  is  it  the  king  that  rides  this  ivay — 


412  VARIOUS   TRANSLATIONS 

Oh,  is  it  the  king  that  rides  so  free? 

I  have  looked  for  the  king  this  many  a  day, 
But  the  years  that  mock  me  will  not  say 

Why  tarrieth  he!" 

'T  is  not  your  king  that  shall  ride  to-night, 

But  a  child  that  is  fast  asleep; 

And  the  horse  he  shall  ride  is  the  Dream-horse  white — 
Aha,  he  shall  speed  through  the  ghostly  light 

Where  the  ghostly  shadows  creep! 
"My  eyes  are  dull  and  my  face  is  sere, 

Yet  unto  the  word  he  gave  I  cling, 
For  he  was  a  Pharaoh  that  set  me  here — 
And,  lo!  I  have  waited  this  many  a  year 

For  him — my  king !" 

Oh,  past  thy  face  my  darling  shall  ride 

Swift  as  the  burning  winds  that  bear 
The  sand  clouds  over  the  desert  wide — 
Swift  to  the  verdure  and  palms  beside 
The  wells  off  there! 

II  And  is  it  the  mighty  king  I  shall  see 

Come  riding  into  the  night? 
Oh,  is  it  the  king  come  back  to  me — 
Proudly  and  fiercely  rideth  he, 

With  centuries  dight !  " 

I  know  no  king  but  my  dark-eyed  dear 

That  shall  ride  the  Dream-Horse  white; 
But  see!   he  wakes  at  my  bosom  here, 
While  the  Dream-Horse  frettingly  lingers  near 

To  speed  with  my  babe  to-night! 
And  out  of  the  desert  darkness  peers 

A  ghostly,  ghastlyy  shadowy  thing 
Like  a  spirit  come  out  of  the  mouldering  yearsf 
And  ever  that  waiting  spectre  hears 

The  coming  king  ! 


HYMN  413 

HYMN 

(FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MARTIN  LUTHER) 

O  HEART  of  mine!   lift  up  thine  eyes 
And  see  who  in  yon  manger  lies! 
Of  perfect  form,  of  face  divine — 
It  is  the  Christ-child,  heart  of  mine! 

O  dearest,  holiest  Christ-child,  spread 
Within  this  heart  of  mine  thy  bed; 
Then  shall  my  breast  forever  be 
A  chamber  consecrate  to  thee! 

Beat  high  to-day,  O  heart  of  mine, 
And  tell,  O  lips,  what  joys  are  thine; 
For  with  your  help  shall  I  prolong 
Old  Bethlehem's  sweetest  cradle-song. 

Glory  to  God,  whom  this  dear  Child 
Hath  by  His  coming  reconciled, 
And  whose  redeeming  love  again 
Brings  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men! 


TWO  IDYLS  FROM  BION  THE  SMYRNEAN 

i 

ONCE  a  fowler,  young  and  artless, 
To  the  quiet  greenwood  came; 

Full  of  skill  was  he  and  heartless 
In  pursuit  of  feathered  game. 

And  betimes  he  chanced  to  see 

Eros  perching  in  a  tree. 


414  VARIOUS   TRANSLATIONS 

"What  strange  bird  is  that,  I  wonder?" 
Thought  the  youth,  and  spread  his  snare; 

Eros,  chuckling  at  the  blunder, 
Gayly  scampered  here  and  there. 

Do  his  best,  the  simple  clod 

Could  not  snare  the  agile  god! 

Blubbering,  to  his  aged  master 
Went  the  fowler  in  dismay, 

And  confided  his  disaster 

With  that  curious  bird  that  day; 

"Master,  hast  thou  ever  heard 

Of  so  ill-disposed  a  bird?" 

"Heard  of  him?     Aha,  most  truly!" 
Quoth  the  master  with  a  smile; 

"And  thou,  too,  shalt  know  him  duly — 
Thou  art  young,  but  bide  awhile, 

And  old  Eros  will  not  fly 

From  thy  presence  by  and  by! 

"For  when  thou  art  somewhat  older 
That  same  Eros  thou  didst  see, 

More  familiar  grown  and  bolder, 
Shall  become  acquaint  with  thee; 

And  when  Eros  comes  thy  way 

Mark  my  word,  he  comes  to  stay!" 

II 

Once  came  Venus  to  me,  bringing 

Eros  where  my  cattle  fed — 
"Teach  this  little  boy  your  singing, 

Gentle  herdsman,"  Venus  said. 
I  was  young — I  did  not  know 

Whom  it  was  that  Venus  led — 
That  was  many  years  ago! 

In  a  lusty  voice  but  mellow — 
Callow  pedant!  I  began 


A   RHINE-LAND   DRINKING   SONG  415 

To  instruct  the  little  fellow 

In  the  mysteries  known  to  man; 
Sung  the  noble  cithern's  praise, 

And  the  flute  of  dear  old  Pan, 
And  the  lyre  that  Hermes  plays. 

» 
But  he  paid  no  heed  unto  me — 

•  Nay,  that  graceless  little  boy 
Coolly  plotted  to  undo  me — 

With  his  songs  of  tender  joy; 
And  my  pedantry  o'erthrown, 

Eager  was  I  to  employ 
His  sweet  ritual  for  mine  own! 

Ah,  these  years  of  ours  are  fleeting! 

Yet  I  have  not  vainly  wrought, 
Since  to-day  I  am  repeating 

What  dear  lessons  Eros  taught; 
Love,  and  always  love,  and  then — 

Counting  all  things  else  for  naught — 
Love  and  always  love  again! 


A  RHINE-LAND  DRINKING  SONG 

IF  our  own  life  is  the  life  of  a  flower 

(And  that's  what  some  sages  are  thinking), 
We  should  moisten  the  bud  with  a  health-giving  flood 
And  't  will  bloom  all  the  sweeter — 
Yes,  life  's  the  completer 
For  drinking, 

and  drinking, 

and  drinking. 

If  it  be  that  our  life  is  a  journey 

(As  many  wise  folk  are  opining), 
We  should  sprinkle  the  way  with  the  rain  while  we  may; 


416  VARIOUS   TRANSLATIONS 

Though  dusty  and  dreary, 
'T  is  made  cool  and  cheery 
With  wining, 

and  wining, 

and  wining. 

If  this  life  that  we  live  be  a  dreaming 

(As  pessimist  people  are  thinking), 
To  induce  pleasant  dreams  there  is  nothing,  meseems, 
Like  this  sweet  prescription, 
That  baffles  description — 
This  drinking, 

and  drinking, 

and  drinking. 


HUGO'S   "POOL  IN  THE  FOREST" 

How  calm,  how  beauteous  and  how  cool — 

How  like  a  sister  to  the  skies, 
Appears  the  broad,  transparent  pool 

That  in  this  quiet  forest  lies. 
The  sunshine  ripples  on  its  face, 

And  from  the  world  around,  above, 
It  hath  caught  down  the  nameless  grace 

Of  such  reflections  as  we  love. 

But  deep  below  its  surface  crawl 

The  reptile  horrors  of  the  night — 
The  dragons,  lizards,  serpents — all 

The  hideous  brood  that  hate  the  light; 
Through  poison  fern  and  slimy  weed 

And  under  ragged,  jagged  stones 
They  scuttle,  or,  in  ghoulish  greed, 

They  lap  a  dead  man's  bleaching  boneSo 

And  as,  O  pool,  thou  dost  cajole 
With  seemings  that  beguile  us  well, 

So  doeth  many  a  human  soul 

That  teemeth  with  the  lusts  of  hell. 


417 


HUGO'S   "CHILD  AT  PLAY" 

A  CHILD  was  singing  at  his  play — 
I  heard  the  song,  and  paused  to  hear; 

His  mother  moaning,  groaning  lay, 
And,  lo!  a  spectre  stood  anear! 

The  child  shook  sunlight  from  his  hair, 
And  carolled  gayly  all  day  long — 

Ay,  with  that  spectre  gloating  there, 
The  innocent  made  mirth  and  song! 

How  like  to  harvest  fruit  wert  thou, 
O  sorrow,  in  that  dismal  room — 

God  ladeth  not  the  tender  bough 
Save  with  the  joy  of  bud  and  bloom! 


LOVE  SONG— HEINE 

MANY  a  beauteous  flower  doth  spring 
From  the  tears  that  flood  my  eyes, 

And  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
In  the  burthen  of  my  sighs. 

If,  O  child,  thou  lovest  me, 

Take  these  flowerets  fair  and  frail, 

And  my  soul  shall  waft  to  thee 
Love  songs  of  the  nightingale. 


TO  CINNA 

CINNA,  the  great  Venusian,  told 
In  songs  that  will  not  die 

How  in  Augustan  days  of  old 
Your  love  did  glorify 


418  VARIOUS   TRANSLATIONS 

His  life,  and  all  his  being  seemed 
Thrilled  by  that  rare  incense 

Till,  grudging  him  the  dreams  he  dreamed; 
The  gods  did  call  you  hence. 

Cinna,  I  've  looked  into  your  eyes, 

And  held  your  hands  in  mine, 
And  seen  your  cheeks  in  sweet  surprise 

Blush  red  as  Massic  wine; 
Now  let  the  songs  in  Cinna' s  praise 

Be  chanted  once  again, 
For,  oh!   alone  I  walk  the  ways 

We  walked  together  then! 

Perhaps  upon  some  star  to-night, 

So  far  away  in  space 
I  cannot  see  that  beacon  light 

Nor  feel  its  soothing  grace — 
Perhaps  from  that  far-distant  sphere 

Her  quickened  vision  seeks 
For  this  poor  heart  of  mine  that  here 

To  its  lost  Cinna  speaks. 

Then  search  this  heart,  beloved  eyes, 

And  find  it  still  as  true 
As  when  in  all  my  boyhood  skies 

My  guiding  stars  were  you! 
Cinna,  you  know  the  mystery 

That  is  denied  to  men — 
Mine  is  the  lot  to  feel  that  we 

Shall  elsewhere  love  again! 


DER  MANN  IM  KELLER 

How  cool  and  fair  this  cellar  where 
My  throne  a  dusky  cask  is; 

To  do  no  thing  but  just  to  sing 

And  drown  the  time  my  task  is. 


4  J  TROT,  MY  GOOD  STEED,  TRO11!"  419 

The  cooper  he  's 

Resolved  to  please, 
And,  answering  to  my  winking, 

He  fills  me  up 

Cup  after  cup 
For  drinking,  drinking,  drinking. 

Begrudge  me  not 

This  cosey  spot 
In  which  I  am  reclining — 

Why,  who  would  burst 

With  envious  thirst, 
When  he  can  live  by  wining? 
A  roseate  hue  seems  to  imbue 

The  world  on  which  I  'm  blinking; 
My  fellow-men — I  love  them  when 
I  'in  drinking,  drinking,  drinking. 

And  yet  I  think,  the  more  I  drink, 

It 's  more  and  more  I  pine  for — 
Oh,  such  as  I  (forever  dry) 

God  made  this  land  of  Rhine  for 

And  there  is  bliss 

In  knowing  this, 
As  to  the  floor  I  'm  sinking: 

I  've  wronged  no  man 

And  never  can 
Wliile  drinking,  drinking,  drinking. 


"TROT,  MY  GOOD  STEED,  TROT!" 

WHERE  my  true  love  abideth 
I  make  my  way  to-night; 

Lo!   waiting,  she 

Espieth  me, 
And  calleth  in  delight: 


420  VARIOUS   TRANSLATIONS 

"I  see  his  steed  anear 
Come  trotting  with  my  dear, — 
Oh,  idle  not,  good  steed,  but  trot, 
Trot  thou  my  lover  here!" 

Aloose  I  cast  the  bridle, 
And  ply  the  whip  and  spur; 
And  gayly  I 
Speed  this  reply, 
While  faring  on  to  her: 
"Oh,  true  love,  fear  thou  not! 
I  seek  our  trysting  spot; 
And  double  feed  be  yours,  my  steed, 
If  you  more  swiftly  trot." 

I  vault  from  out  the  saddle, 
And  make  my  good  steed  fast; 
Then  to  my  breast 
My  love  is  pressed, — 
At  last,  true  heart,  at  last! 
The  garden  drowsing  lies, 
The  stars  fold  down  their  eyes, — 
In  this  dear  spot,  my  steed,  neigh  not, 
Nor  stamp  in  restless  wise! 

O  passing  sweet  communion 

Of  young  hearts,  warm  and  true! 
To  thee  belongs 
The  old,  old  songs 
Love  finds  forever  new. 
We  sing  those  songs,  and  then 
Cometh  the  moment  when 
It's  "Good  steed,  trot  from  this  dear  spot,- 
Trot,  trot  me  home  again!" 


BION'S  SONG  OF  EROS  421 


DION'S  SONG  OF  EROS 

EROS  is  the  god  of  love; 
He  and  I  are  hand-in-glove. 
All  the  gentle,  gracious  Muses 
Follow  Eros  where  he  leads, 
And  they  bless  the  bard  who  chooses 

To  proclaim  love's  famous  deeds; 
Him  they  serve  in  rapturous  glee, — 
That  is  why  they  're  good  to  me. 

Sometimes  I  have  gone  astray 
From  love's  sunny,  flowery  way: 
How  I  floundered,  how  I  stuttered! 

And,  deprived  of  ways  and  means, 
What  egregious  rot  I  uttered, — 
Such  as  suits  the  magazines! 
I  was  rescued  only  when 
Eros  called  me  back  again. 

Gods  forefend  that  I  should  shun 
That  benignant  Mother's  son! 
Why,  the  poet  who  refuses 

To  emblazon  love's  delights 
Gets  the  mitten  from  the  Muses, — 
Then  what  balderdash  he  writes  I 
I  love  Love;  which  being  so, 
See  how  smooth  my  verses  flow! 

Gentle  Eros,  lead  the  way, — 
I  will  follow  while  I  may: 

Be  thy  path  by  hill  or  hollow, 

I  will  follow  fast  and  free; 
And  when  I  'm  too  old  to  follow, 

I  will  sit  and  sing  of  thee, — 
Potent  still  in  intellect, 
Sit,  and  sing,  and  retrospect. 


422  VARIOUS   TRANSLATIONS 


FIDUCIT 

THREE  comrades  on  the  German  Rhine, 

Defying  care  and  weather, 
Together  quaffed  the  mellow  wine, 

And  sung  their  songs  together. 
What  recked  they  of  the  griefs  of  life, 

With  wine  and  song  to  cheer  them  ? 
Though  elsewhere  trouble  might  be  rife, 

It  would  not  come  anear  them. 

Anon  one  comrade  passed  away, 

And  presently  another, 
And  yet  unto  the  tryst  each  day 

Repaired  the  lonely  brother; 
And  still,  as  gayly  as  of  old, 

That  third  one,  hero-hearted, 
Filled  to  the  brim  each  cup  of  gold, 

And  called  to  the  departed, — 

"O  comrades  mine!     I  see  ye  not, 

Nor  hear  your  kindly  greeting, 
Vet  in  this  old,  familiar  spot 

Be  still  pur  loving  meeting! 
Here  have  I  filled  each  bouting-cup 

With  juices  red  and  cheery; 
I  pray  ye  drink  the  potion  up, 

And  as  of  old  make  merry!" 

And  once  before  his  tear-dimmed  eyes? 

All  in  the  haunted  gloaming, 
He  saw  two  ghostly  figures  rise, 

And  quaff  the  beakers  foaming; 
He  heard  two  spirit  voices  call, 

"Fiducit,  jovial  brother!" 
And  so  forever  from  that  hall 

Went  they  with  one  another. 


THE    LOST   CUPID    OF   MOSCHUS  423 


THE  LOST  CUPID  OF  MOSCHUS 

"CUPID!"   Venus  went  a-crying; 

"Cupid,  whither  dost  thou  stray? 
Tell  me,  people,  hither  hieing, 

Have  you  seen  my  runaway  ? 

Speak, — my  kiss  shall  be  your  pay! 
Yes,  and  sweets  more  gratifying, 

If  you  bring  him  back  to-day. 

"Cupid,"  Venus  went  a-calling, 

"Is  a  rosy  little  youth, 
But  his  beauty  is  enthralling. 

He  will  speak  you  fair,  in  sooth, 

Wheedle  you  with  glib  untruth, — 
Honey-like  his  words:   but  galling 

Are  his  deeds,  and  full  of  ruth! 

"Cupid's  hair  is  curling  yellow, 

And  he  hath  a  saucy  face; 
With  his  chubby  hands  the  fellow 

Shooteth  into  farthest  space, 

Heedless  of  all  time  and  place; 
King  and  squire  and  punchinello 

He  delighteth  to  abase! 

"Nude  and  winged  the  prankish  blade  is, 
And  he  speedeth  everywhere, 

Vexing  gentlemen  and  ladies, 

Callow  youths  and  damsels  fair 
Whom  he  catcheth  unaware; — 

Venturing  even  into  Hades, 

He  hath  sown  his  torments  there! 


"For  that  bow,  that  bow  and  quiver, — 

Oh,  they  are  a  cruel  twain! 
Thinking  of  them  makes  me  shiver. 


424  VARIOUS   TRANSLATIONS 

Oft,  with  all  his  might  and  main, 
Cupid  sends  those  darts  profane 
Whizzing  through  my  heart  and  liver, 
Setting  fire  to  every  vein! 

"And  the  torch  he  carries  blazing, — 

Truly  't  is  a  tiny  one; 
Yet,  that  tiny  torch  upraising, 

Cupid  scarifies  the  sun! 

Ah,  good  people,  there  is  none 
Knows  what  mischief  most  amazing 

Cupid's  evil  torch  hath  done! 

"Show  no  mercy  when  you  find  him! 

Spite  of  every  specious  plea 
And  of  all  his  whimpering,  bind  him! 

Full  of  flatteries  is  he; 

Armed  with  treachery,  cap-a-pie, 
He  '11  play  'possum;   never  mind  him, — 

March  him  straightway  back  to  me  I 

"Bow  and  arrows  and  sweet  kisses 

He  will  offer  you,  no  doubt; 
But  beware  those  proffered  blisses, — 

They  are  venomous  throughout! 

Seize  and  bind  him  fast  about; 
Mind  you, — most  important  this  is: 

Bind  him,  bring  him,  but — watch  out!" 


AN  ECLOGUE  FROM  VIRGIL  425 


AN  ECLOGUE  FROM  VIRGIL 

[The  exile  Melibceus  finds  Tityrus  in  possession  of  his  own  farm,  re 
stored  to  him  by  the  Emperor  Augustus,  and  a  conversation  ensues.  The 
poem  is  in  praise  of  Augustus,  peace,  and  pastoral  life.] 

MELIBOEUS 

TITYRUS,  all  in  the  shade  of  the  wide-spreading  beech-tree  reclining, 
Sweet  is  that  music  you've  made  on  your  pipe  that  is  oaten  and 

slender; 

Exiles  from  home,  you  beguile  our  hearts  from  their  hopeless  re 
pining, 
As  you  sing  Amaryllis  the  while  in  pastorals  tuneful  and  tender. 

TITYRUS 

A  god — yes,  a  god,  I  declare — vouchsafes  me  these  pleasant  con 
ditions, 

And  often  I  gayly  repair  with  a  tender  white  lamb  to  his  altar; 
He  gives  me  the  leisure  to  play  my  greatly  admired  compositions, 
While  my  heifers  go  browsing  all  day,  unhampered  of  bell  and 
of  halter. 

MELIBCEUS 

I  do  not  begrudge  you  repose;    I  simply  admit  I  'm  confounded 
To  find  you  unscathed  of  the  woes  of  pillage  and  tumult  and 

battle. 

To  exile  and  hardship  devote,  and  by  merciless  enemies  hounded, 
I  drag  at  this  wretched  old  goat  and  coax  on  my  famishing 

cattle. 
Oh,  often  the  omens  presaged  the  horrors  which  now  overwhelm 

me — 
But,  come,  if  not  elsewise  engaged,  who  is  this  good  deity,  tell  me! 

TITYRUS 

(reminiscently) 

The  city — the  city  called  Rome,  with  my  head  full  of  herding  and 

tillage, 

I  used  to  compare  with  my  home,  these  pastures  wherein  you 
now  wander; 


426  VARIOUS   TRANSLATIONS 

But  I  didn't  take  long  to  find  out  that  the  city  surpasses  the  village 
As  the  cypress  surpasses  the  sprout  that  thrives  in  the  thicket 
out  yonder. 

MELIBOEUS 

Tell  me,  good  gossip,  I  pray,  what  led  you  to  visit  the  city? 

TITYRUS 

Liberty!  which  on  a  day  regarded  my  lot  with  compassion; 
My  age  and  distresses,  forsooth,  compelled  that  proud  mistress 

to  pity, 
That  had  snubbed  the  attentions  of  youth  in  most  reprehensible 

fashion. 

Oh,  happy,  thrice  happy,  the  day  when  the  cold  Galatea  forsook  me; 
And  equally  happy,  I  say,  the  hour  when  that  other  girl  took  me! 

MELIBOEUS 

(slyly,  as  if  addressing  the  damsel) 

So  now,  Amaryllis,  the  truth  of  your  ill-disguised  grief  I  discover! 
You  pined  for  a  favorite  youth  with  citified  damsels  hobnobbing ; 
And  soon  your  surroundings  partook  of  your  grief  for  your  rec 
usant  lover, — 

The  pine-trees,  the  copse,  and  the  brook,  for  Tityrus  ever  went 
sobbing. 

TITYRUS 
Melibreus,  what  else  could  I  do?     Fate  doled  me  no  morsel  of 

pity; 

My  toil  was  all  vain  the  year  through,  no  matter  how  earnest  or 

clever, 

Till,  at  last,  came  that  god  among  men,  that  king  from  that  won 
derful  city, 

And  quoth:     "Take  your  homesteads  again;    they  are  yours 
and  your  assigns'  forever!" 

MELIBCEUS 

Happy,  oh,  happy  old  man!    rich  in  what's  better  than  money, — 
Rich  in  contentment,  you  can  gather  sweet  peace  by  mere  lis 
tening; 


AN   ECLOGUE   FROM   VIRGIL  427 

Bees  with  soft  murmurings  go  hither  and  thither  for  honey, 

Cattle  all  gratefully  low  in  pastures  where  fountains  are  glisten 
ing— 

Hark!  in  the  shade  of  that  rock  the  pruner  with  singing  rejoices, — 
The  dove  in  the  elm  and  the  flock  of  wood-pigeons  hoarsely 

repining, 
The  plash  of  the  sacred  cascade, — ah,  restful,  indeed,  are  these 

voices, 

Tityrus,  all  in  the  shade  of  your  wide-spreading  beech-tree  re 
clining! 

TITYRUS 

And  he  who  insures  this  to  me — oh,  craven  I  were  not  to  love 

him! 
Nay,  rather  the  fish  of  the  sea  shall  vacate  the  water  they  swim 

in, 
The  stag  quit  his  bountiful  grove  to  graze  in  the  ether  above 

him, 
While  folk  antipodean  rove  along  with  their  children  and  women ! 

MELIBCEUS 

(suddenly  recalling  his  own  misery) 

But  we  who  are  exiled  must  go;   and  whither — ah,  whither — God 

knoweth ! 
Some  into  those  regions  of  snow  or  of  desert  where  Death  reign- 

eth  only; 

Some  off  to  the  country  of  Crete,  where  rapid  Oaxes  down  floweth; 

And  desperate  others  retreat  to  Britain,  the  bleak  isle  and  lonely. 

Dear  land  of  my  birth!   shall  I  see  the  horde  of  invaders  oppress 

thee? 
Shall  the  wealth  that  outspringeth  from  thee  by  the  hand  of  the 

alien  be  squandered? 

Dear  cottage  wherein  I  was  born!   shall  another  in  conquest  pos 
sess  thee, 
Another  demolish  in  scorn  the  fields  and  the  groves  where  I  've 

wandered  ? 

My  flock!    nevermore  shall  you  graze  on  that  furze-covered  hill 
side  above  me; 

Gone,  gone  are  the  halcyon  days  when  my  reed  piped  defiance 
to  sorrow! 


428  VARIOUS   TRANSLATIONS 

Nevermore  in  the  vine-covered  grot  shall  I  sing  of  the  loved  ones 

that  love  me, — 

Let  yesterday's  peace  be  forgot  in  dread  of  the  stormy  to-mor 
row! 

TITYRUS 

But  rest  you  this  night  with  me  here;   my  bed, — we  will  share  it 

together, 
As  soon  as  you  've  tasted  my  cheer,  my  apples  and  chestnuts 

and  cheeses; 

The  evening  already  is  nigh, — the  shadows  creep  over  the  heather, 
And  the  smoke  is  rocked  up  to  the  sky  to  the  lullaby  song  of  the 
breezes. 


CATULLUS  TO  LESBIA 

COME,  my  Lesbia,  no  repining; 

Let  us  love  while  yet  we  may! 
Suns  go  on  forever  shining; 

But  when  we  have  had  our  day, 
Sleep  perpetual  shall  o'ertake  us, 
And  no  morrow's  dawn  awake  us. 

Come,  in  yonder  nook  reclining, 

Where  the  honeysuckle  climbs, 
Let  us  mock  at  Fate's  designing, 

Let  us  kiss  a  thousand  times! 
And  if  they  shall  prove  too  few,  dear, 
When  they  're  kissed  we  '11  start  anew,  dear! 

And  should  any  chance  to  see  us, 
Goodness!  how  they  '11  agonize! 

How  they  '11  wish  that  they  could  be  us, 
Kissing  in  such  liberal  wise! 

Never  mind  their  envious  whining; 

Come,  my  Lesbia,  no  repining! 


KORNER'S  BATTLE  PRAYER  429 


KORNER'S  BATTLE  PRAYER 

FATHER,  I  cry  to  Thee! 
Round  me  the  billows  of  battle  are  pouring, 
Round  me  the  thunders  of  battle  are  roaring; 

Father  on  high,  hear  Thou  my  cry, — 

Father,  oh,  lead  Thou  me! 

Father,  oh,  lead  Thou  me! 

Lead  me,  o'er  Death  and  its  terrors  victorious, — 
See,  I  acknowledge  Thy  will  as  all-glorious; 

Point  thou  the  way,  lead  where  it  may, — 

God,  I  acknowledge  Thee! 

God,  I  acknowledge  Thee! 

As  when  the  dead  leaves  of  autumn  whirl  round  me 
So,  when  the  horrors  of  war  would  confound  me, 

Laugh  I  at  fear,  knowing  Thee  near, — 

Father,  oh,  bless  Thou  me! 

Father,  oh,  bless  Thou  me! 
Living  or  dying,  waking  or  sleeping, 
Such  as  I  am,  I  commit  to  Thy  keeping: 

Frail  though  I  be,  Lord,  bless  Thou  me! 

Father,  I  worship  Thee! 

Father,  I  worship  Thee! 
Not  for  the  love  of  the  riches  that  perish, 
But  for  the  freedom  and  justice  we  cherish, 

Stand  we  or  fall,  blessing  Thee,  all — 

God,  I  submit  to  Thee! 

God,  I  submit  to  Thee! 

Yea,  though  the  terrors  of  Death  pass  before  me, 
Yea,  with  the  darkness  of  Death  stealing  o'er  me, 

Lord,  unto  Thee  bend  I  the  knee, — 

Father,  I  cry  to  Thee! 


430  VARIOUS   TRANSLATIONS 


BERANGER'S   "MA  VOCATION 

MISERY  is  my  lot, 

Poverty  and  pain; 
111  was  I  begot, 

111  must  I  remain; 
Yet  the  wretched  days 

One  sweet  comfort  bring, 
When  God  whispering  says, 

1  'Sing,  O  singer,  sing  !" 

Chariots  rumble  by, 

Splashing  me  with  mud; 
Insolence  see  I 

Fawn  to  royal  blood; 
Solace  have  I  then 

From  each  galling  sting 
In  that  voice  again, — 

"Sing,  O  singer,  sing  1" 

Cowardly  at  heart, 

I  am  forced  to  play 
A  degraded  part 

For  its  paltry  pay; 
Freedom  is  a  prize 

For  no  starving  thing; 
Yet  that  small  voice  cries, 

"Sing,  O  singer,  sing  !" 

I  was  young,  but  now, 

When  I  'm  old  and  gray, 
Love — I  know  not  how 

Or  why — hath  sped  away; 
Still,  in  winter  days 

As  in  hours  of  spring, 
Still  a  whisper  says, 

"Sing,  O  singer,  sing  !" 


HUGO'S  "FLOWER  TO  BUTTERFLY"  431 

Ah,  too  well  I  know 

Song  's  my  only  friend  I 
Patiently  I  '11  go 

Singing  to  the  end; 
Comrades,  to  your  wine  ! 

Let  your  glasses  ring  ! 
Lo,  that  voice  divine 

Whispers,  "Sing,  oh,  sing  I" 


HUGO'S  "FLOWER  TO  BUTTERFLY" 

SWEET,  bide  with  me  and  let  my  love 

Be  an  enduring  tether; 
Oh,  wanton  not  from  spot  to  spot, 

But  let  us  dwell  together. 

You  've  come  each  morn  to  sip  the  sweets 
With  which  you  found  me  dripping, 

Yet  never  knew  it  was  not  dew 
But  tears  that  you  were  sipping. 

You  gambol  over  honey  meads 
Where  siren  bees  are  humming; 

But  mine  the  fate  to  watch  and  wait 
For  my  beloved's  coming. 

The  sunshine  that  delights  you  now 

Shall  fade  to  darkness  gloomy; 
You  should  not  fear  if,  biding  here, 
You  nestled  closer  to  me. 

So  rest  you,  love,  and  be  my  love, 
That  my  enraptured  blooming 

May  fill  your  sight  with  tender  light, 
Your  wings  with  sweet  perfuming. 


432  VARIOUS   TRANSLATIONS 

Or,  if  you  will  not  bide  with  me 

Upon  this  quiet  heather, 
Oh,  give  me  wing,  thou  beauteous  thing, 

That  we  may  soar  together. 


BERANGER'S  "MY  LAST  SONG  PERHAPS" 
[JANUARY,  1814] 

WHEN,  to  despoil  my  native  France, 

With  flaming  torch  and  cruel  sword 
And  boisterous  drums  her  foeman  comes, 

I  curse  him  and  his  vandal  horde  ! 
Yet,  what  avail  accrues  to  her, 

If  we  assume  the  garb  of  woe  ? 
Let's  merry  be, — in  laughter  we 

May  rescue  somewhat  from  the  foe  I 

Ah,  many  a  brave  man  trembles  now. 

I  (coward!)  show  no  sign  of  fear; 
When  Bacchus  sends  his  blessing,  friends, 

I  drown  my  panic  in  his  cheer. 
Come,  gather  round  my  humble  board, 

And  let  the  sparkling  wassail  flow, — 
Chuckling  to  think,  the  while  you  drink, 

"This  much  we  rescue  from  the  foe  1" 

My  creditors  beset  me  so 

And  so  environed  my  abode, 
That  I  agreed,  despite  my  need, 

To  settle  up  the  debts  I  owed; 
When  suddenly  there  came  the  news 

Of  this  invasion,  as  you  know; 
I  '11  pay  no  score;  pray,  lend  me  more,-=- 

I — I  will  keep  it  from  the  foe  1 


UHLAND'S  "THREE  CAVALIERS"  433 

Now  here  's  my  mistress, — pretty  dear! — 

Feigns  terror  at  this  martial  noise, 
And  yet,  methinks,  the  artful  minx 

Would  like  to  meet  those  soldier  boys  I 
I  tell  her  that  they're  coarse  and  rude, 

Yet  feel  she  don't  believe  'em  so, — 
Well,  never  mind;   so  she  be  kind, 

That  much  I  rescue  from  the  foe  ! 

If,  brothers,  hope  shall  have  in  store 

For  us  and  ours  no  friendly  glance, 
Let's  rather  die  than  raise  a  cry 

Of  welcome  to  the  foes  of  France  ! 
But,  like  the  swan  that  dying  sings, 

Let  us,  O  Frenchmen,  singing  go, — 
Then  shall  our  cheer,  when  death  is  near, 

Be  so  much  rescued  from  the  foe  1 


UHLAND'S  "THREE  CAVALIERS" 

THERE  were  three  cavaliers  that  went  over  the  Rhine, 
And  gayly  they  called  to  the  hostess  for  wine. 
"And  where  is  thy  daughter?     We  would  she  were  here, — 
Go  fetch  us  that  maiden  to  gladden  our  cheer  I" 

"I  '11  fetch  thee  thy  goblets  full  foaming,"  she  said, 
"But  in  yon  darkened  chamber  the  maiden  lies  dead." 
And  lo!   as  they  stood  in  the  doorway,  the  white 
Of  a  shroud  and  a  dead  shrunken  face  met  their  sight. 

Then  the  first  cavalier  breathed  a  pitiful  sigh, 
And  the  throb  of  his  heart  seemed  to  melt  in  his  eye, 
And  he  cried,  "Hadst  thou  lived,  O  my  pretty  white  rose, 
I  ween  I  had  loved  thee  and  wed  thee — who  knows?" 

The  next  cavalier  drew  aside  a  small  space, 
And  stood  to  the  wall  with  his  hands  to  his  face; 
And  this  was  the  heart-cry  that  came  with  his  tears: 
"I  loved  her,  I  loved  her  these  many  long  years  !" 


434  VARIOUS   TRANSLATIONS 

But  the  third  cavalier  kneeled  him  down  in  that  place, 
And,  as  it  were  holy,  he  kissed  that  dead  face: 
"I  loved  thee  long  years,  and  I  love  thee  to-day, 
And  I  '11  love  thee,  dear  maiden,  forever  and  aye  I" 


HEINE'S  "WIDOW  OR  DAUGHTER?" 

SHALL  I  woo  the  one  or  other? 

Both  attract  me — more  's  the  pity! 
Pretty  is  the  widowed  mother, 

And  the  daughter,  too,  is  pretty. 

When  I  see  that  maiden  shrinking, 
By  the  gods  I  swear  I  '11  get  'er! 

But  anon  I  fall  to  thinking 

That  the  mother  '11  suit  me  better! 

So,  like  any  idiot  ass 

Hungry  for  the  fragrant  fodder, 
Placed  between  two  bales  of  grass, 

Lo,  I  doubt,  delay,  and  dodder! 


BERANGER'S   " BROKEN  FIDDLE" 


THERE,  there,  poor  dog,  my  faithful  friend, 
Pay  you  no  heed  unto  my  sorrow: 

But  feast  to-day  while  yet  you  may, — 

Who  knows  but  we  shall  starve  to-morrow! 

ii 

"Give  us  a  tune,"  the  foemen  cried, 
In  one  of  their  profane  caprices; 

I  bade  them  "No" — they  frowned,  and,  lo! 
They  dashed  this  innocent  in  pieces! 


BERANGER'S  "BROKEN  FIDDLE"  435 


in 


This  fiddle  was  the  village  pride — 
The  mirth  of  every  fe"te  enhancing; 

Its  wizard  art  set  every  heart 
As  well  as  every  foot  to  dancing. 


IV 


How  well  the  bridegroom  knew  its  voice, 
As  from  its  strings  its  song  went  gushing! 

Nor  long  delayed  the  promised  maid 
Equipped  for  bridal,  coy  and  blushing. 


Why,  it  discoursed  so  merrily, 
It  quickly  banished  all  dejection; 

And  yet,  when  pressed,  our  priest  confessed 
I  played  with  pious  circumspection. 

VI 

And  though,  in  patriotic  song, 

It  was  our  guide,  compatriot,  teacher, 

I  never  thought  the  foe  had  wrought 
His  fury  on  the  helpless  creature! 

VII 

But  there,  poor  dog,  my  faithful  friend, 
Pay  you  no  heed  unto  my  sorrow; 

I  prithee  take  this  paltry  cake, — 
Who  knows  but  we  shall  starve  to-morrow! 

VIII 

Ah,  who  shall  lead  the  Sunday  choir 
As  this  old  fiddle  used  to  do  it? 

Can  vintage  come,  with  this  voice  dumb 
That  used  to  bid  a  welcome  to  it? 


436  VARIOUS    TRANSLATIONS 

IX 

It  soothed  the  weary  hours  of  toil, 
It  brought  forgetfulness  to  debtors; 

Time  and  again  from  wretched  men 
It  struck  oppression's  galling  fetters. 


No  man  could  hear  its  voice,  and  hate; 

It  stayed  the  teardrop  at  its  portal; 
With  that  dear  thing  I  was  a  king 

As  never  yet  was  monarch  mortal! 

XI 

Now  has  the  foe — the  vandal  foe — 

Struck  from  my  hands  their  pride  and  glory; 
There  let 'it  lie!     In  vengeance,  I 

Shall  wield  another  weapon,  gory! 

XII 

And  if,  O  countrymen,  I  fall, 

Beside  our  grave  let  this  be  spoken 

"No  foe  of  France  shall  ever  dance 
Above  the  heart  and  fiddle,  broken!" 

XIII 

So  come,  poor  dog,  my  faithful  friend, 
I  prithee  do  not  heed  my  sorrow, 

But  feast  to-day  while  yet  you  may, 
For  we  are  like  to  starve  to-morrow. 


SHARPS  AND  FLATS 


THE  OFFICIAL  EXPLANATION 

ONE  night  aside  the  fire  at  hum, 

Ez  I  wuz  sittin'  nappin', 
Deown  frum  the  lower  hall  there  come 

The  seound  of  some  one  rappin'. 
The  son  uv  old  Nat  Hawthorne  he — 

Julian,  I  think  his  name  wuz — 
Uv  course  he  feound  a  friend  in  me, 

Not  knowin'  what  his  game  wuz. 

An'  ez  we  visited  a  spell, 

Our  talk  ranged  wide  an'  wider, 
An'  if  we  struck  dry  subjects — well, 

We  washed  'em  deown  with  cider. 
Neow,  with  that  cider  coursin'  thru 

My  system  an'  a-playin' 
Upon  my  tongue,  I  hardly  knew 

Just  what  I  was  a-sayin'. 

I  kin  remember  that  I  spun 

A  hifalutin  story 
Abeout  the  Prince  uv  Wales,  an'  one 

Abeout  old  Queen  Victory. 
But,  sakes  alive!     I  never  dreamed 

The  cuss  would  get  it  printed — 
(By  that  old  gal  I  'm  much  esteemed, 

Ez  she  hez  often  hinted.) 

Oh,  if  I  had  that  critter  neow, 
You  bet  your  boots  I  'd  1'arn  him 

In  mighty  lively  fashion  heow 
To  walk  the  chalk,  gol  darn  him! 
437 


438  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

Meanwhile  between  his  folks  an'  mine 
The  breach  grows  wide  an'  wider, 

An',  by  the  way,  it 's  my  design 
To  give  up  drinkin'  cider. 

November  1,  1886. 


THE  POET'S  RETURN 

A  POET,  crazed  by  Mammon,  hung 

His  harp  upon  the  willows,  and 
Forgot  the  songs  which  he  had  sung, 

Sweeping  that  harp  with  master  hand. 
Long  wailed  the  Muse  with  much  ado, 

The  votary  which  Mammon  stole, 
Till  Mammon  pitying  her  withdrew 

The  spell  that  bound  the  poet's  soul. 

The  poet  then  with  master  hand 

Took  down  the  old  familiar  lyre 
And  sang  unto  a  listening  land 

His  song  aflame  with  heav'nly  fire. 
Sing  on,  O  poet,  while  ye  may, 

As  sweetly  as  in  years  of  old, 
For  thy  sweet  songs  shall  live  for  aye, 

A  grander  heritance  than  gold  I 
August  17,  1883. 


A  SHOSHONE  LEGEND 

THE  brave  Shoshones  much  revere 

Our  presidential  Arthur, 
And  they  proclaim  him,  far  and  near 

The  mighty  pale-face  father. 


A   SHOSHONE    LEGEND  439 

This  reverence,  't  is  said,  is  due 

Unto  a  little  caper, 
Which,  whether  false  or  whether  true, 

Hath  ne'er  before  seen  paper. 

Down  in  the  Yellowstone,  one  eve, 

Quoth  Vest,  the  statesman-joker: 
"  Since  time  hangs  heavy,  I  believe 

I  '11  start  a  game  of  poker." 
He  called  the  bold  Shoshones  round 

And  filled  their  pipes  with  Gravely, 
And,  seated  on  the  dewy  ground, 

They  all  chipped  in  right  bravely. 

And  lo!   the  President  did  choose 

To  lend  approval  hearty; 
So,  purchasing  a  stack  of  blues, 

He  sat  in  with  the  party. 
Out  spake  the  brave  Po-Dunk-a-Wee, 

Rending  his  purse  asunder: 
"Big  Injun  bet  heap  dollar  he 

Beat  pale-face  all  to  thunder!" 

Whereat  the  pale-face  chief  sublime 

Did  manifest  a  wincing — 
And  yet  allowed  it  was  no  time 

For  presidential  mincing. 
So  none  dropped  out,  but  all  came  in, 

Till  groaned  the  pot  with  stuffing — 
And,  consequently,  rose  the  din 

Of  multifarious  bluffing. 

And  when  the  show-down  word  was  spoke — 

Alas,  its  dreadful  uses! 
The  brave  Po-Dunk-a-WTee  went  broke 

On  sixes  full  on  deuces; 
"Two  pair,"  the  brave  Tim-Tom-Kee  moaned 

Amid  regretful  blushes, 
While  other  rash  Shoshones  groaned 

O'er  various  bobtail  flusl.es. 


440  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

And  then  a  miracle  ensued 

Which  blanched  the  copper  faces — 

Our  Arthur,  with  rare  fortitude-, 
Showed  down  five  awful  aces. 

August  22,  1883. 


A  ZEPHYR  FROM  ZULULAND 

FROM  Onathlamba  in  the  west, 

Where  rise  the  walls  of  Quangar, 
And  where  the  brave  Bapedis  rest, 

Is  heard  a  joyous  clangor: 
From  Unyanyembe's  pagan  towers — 

The  Umtamtuna  River — 
Where  dark  Kabompo's  noisome  bowers 

Disturb  the  Kaffir's  liver; 
Where  bloom  the  nutmeg  and  the  rose 

And  thrives  the  tapir  greasy, 
And  where  the  Unzimkulu  flows 

Into  the  fair  Zambesi; 
Where  dwells  the  cruel  assagai 

Among  the  fierce  Potgeiters, 
And  Sekukunis  live  and  die 

As  Amaswazai  fighters; 
And  from  the  huts  of  Mozambique 

Upon  the  northern  shore, 
Unto  old  Umoolosi  peak, 

And  fragrant  Delagoa — 
Around  and  round  the  tidings  go, 

Inspiring  vast  thanksgiving 
That  all  in  spite  of  dastard  foe 

Their  monarch  still  is  living. 
Hail,  monarch!     Cetewayo,  hail! — 

Great  England's  pagan  hobby — 
And  bless  thy  fate  that  foes  should  fail 

To  slay  a  nibs  so  nobby! 
August  22,  1883. 


THE   FRENCH   MUST    GO  441 


THE  FRENCH  MUST  GO 

UNTO  his  valiant  aide-de-camp 

Remarked  the  brave  Bouet: 
"To-morrow  we  will  move  along 

To  battle,  s'il  vous  plait. 
Hard  by  the  walls  of  Hue,  we 

Our  pagan  foe  shall  meet, 
And  then  and  there,  mon  cher  ami, 

We  '11  warm  him  tout  de  suite." 


Next  morn,  as  brave  Wun  Lung  with  zest 

Partook  his  matin  rice, 
And  stored  away  beneath  his  vest 

A  pie  composed  of  mice, 
Into  his  presence  rushed  Gin  Sing, 

And  cried  in  sore  dismay: 
"Oh,  save  thyself,  most  potent  king — 

The  Flenchmen  come  this  way!" 

Wun  Lung  looked  daggers,  and  replied: 

"If  that 's  the  Flenchman's  gamee, 
We  '11  meet  him  on  the  plain  outside, 

And  lick  him  allee  samee. 
Close  up  the  laundries,  whet  your  swords; 

And,  with  your  spears  in  hand, 
Call  in  the  servile  cooly  hordes 

And  let  the  junks  be  manned." 

When  this  commotion  brave  Bouet 

Discovered  from  afar — 
"I  fear,"  he  muttered  in  dismay, 

"I  've  made  un  grand  faux  pas. 
I  do  not  understand,"  quoth  he, 

"This  hurrying  to  and  fro; 
But  I  suspect,  from  what  I  see 

And  hear,  je  suis  de  trop ! " 


442  SHARPS    AND    FLATS 

The  hostile  forces  soon  imbrued 

With  murd'rous  shock  and  blow, 
And  in  the  struggle  that  ensued 

The  Frenchman  had  to  go. 
The  fierce  Wun  Lung,  amid  the  strife, 

Beheld  brave  Bouet  near, 
And  took  his  horse-du-combat's  life 

With  battle-axe  and  spear. 

And  when  his  horse-du-combat  fell 

All  lifeless  at  his  feet, 
Brave  Bouet,  with  a  sickening  yell, 

Commanded  a  retreat. 
Wun  Lung  now  lolls  in  his  abode 

From  morn  till  dewy  eve, 
And  eats  his  rat-pie  a  la  mode — 

And  Bouet  takes  "  French  leave/' 
August  22,  1883 


A  BATTLE  IN  YELLOWSTONE  PARK 

THE  sun  had  slipped  down 

The  blue  slant  of  the  west; 
The  pale,  queenly  moon 

Sat  upon  the  night's  crest, 
With  her  face  from  the  world 

Turned  in  shame  half  away, 
As  she  fondly  pursued 

Her  loved  king  of  the  day. 

The  Yellowstone  camp 

In  the  valley  below, 
With  its  tents  like  tombstones 

Set  out  in  a  row, 
Was  quaking  with  fear; 

For  the  word  had  been  brought 
That  a  train  was  en  route 

With  bold  kidnappers  fraught. 


A  BATTLE  IN  YELLOWSTONE  PARK          443 

The  President  lay 

In  his  well-guarded  tent; 
The  general  hither 

And  thither  had  sent 
The  men  of  his  staff 

And  the  men  of  his  troop; 
The  visiting  statesmen 

Were  crouched  in  a  group. 

On  the  soft  summer  breeze 

Came  a  sharp,  startling  sound. 
For  a  moment  all  stood 

As  in  fear's  fetters  bound. 
"What  was  that?"   whispered  Robert. 

SaidRufus:     "Fly!   Hide! 
JT  is  the  savage  war-whoop 

Of  the  robber's  red  guide." 

"Man  the  outposts!    Look  sharp!" 

The  brave  general  said. 
"Guard  the  President  well." 

And  with  field-glass  he  read 
The  circling  horizon, 

To  south  and  to  east, 
Till  his  eye  fell,  at  last, 

On  the  skulking  red  beast. 

Every  eye  in  the  camp 

Strained,  the  pale  night  to  pierce; 
Every  hand  clutched  a  gun, 

As  by  fear  rendered  fierce; 
Every  heart  pounded  hard 

At  the  ribs  of  its  cage 
As  forms  were  spied,  veiled 

By  a  thicket  of  sage. 

Flash!   each  gun  laughed  a  flame 

Like  a  demon  at  sport. 
Crash!   the  still  night  was  rent 

By  the  awful  report, 


444  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

And  the  craggy  old  mountains 
Re-echoed  "Ha,  ha!" 

Till  the  sounds  seemed  to  blend 
In  a  giant  guffaw. 

Hours  and  hours  the  camp  watched 

Till  the  bright  threads  of  dawn 
Wove  a  shining  gold  veil 

For  the  night  to  put  on. 
Then,  there  in  the  sage-brush, 

In  bullet-torn  coats, 
Lay  the  earthly  remains 

Of  a  pair  of  coyotes. 
August  28,  1883. 


HIS  LORDSHIP,  THE  CHIEF  JUSTICE 

WHEREAS,  it  is  alleged,  to  wit: 

There  cometh  from  afar 
A  certain  party  in  whose  cause 

Herewith  these  presents  are; 
One  Coleridge  is  said  party's  name, 

A  lord  of  high  degree, 
Well  known  unto  this  court  and  fame — 

A  judge,  so  called,  is  he. 

As  parties  of  the  second  part, 

We,  the  appellants,  pray 
That  sundry  courtesies  be  shown 

Said  judge  who  comes  this  way; 
And,  furthermore,  appellants  crave 

Said  judge  be  dined  and  feted 
As  would  become  said  judge  and  court 

Hereinbefore  narrated; 
And  that  said  divers  compliments 

Be  also  well  intentioned, 
As  to  delight  said  judge,  so  called, 

Above  and  afore  mentioned. 
August  29,  1883. 


A   HINT   FOR    1884  445 


A  HINT  FOR  1884 

THE  sage  of  Greystone,  so  they  say, 

Has  two  imported  steeds; 
The  one  is  black,  the  other  bay, 

And  both  of  noble  breeds. 
Before  he  bought  these  chargers  rare— 

Of  stylish  blood  and  tone — 
He  used  to  drive  another  pair, 

A  humble  gray  and  roan. 

When  Tilden  hankers  after  style 

On  boulevard  or  street, 
A  coachman  reins  the  chargers, 

While  he  lolls  on  cushioned  seat. 
But  when  he  's  out  for  holiday 

To  scour  the  hedge  and  thicket, 
Alone  he  drives  the  roan  and  gray — 

The  good  old-fashioned  ticket. 
August  31,  1883. 


THE  INDIAN  AND  THE  TROUT 

THE  morning  sun  in  splendor  shone 
On  the  mellow  park  of  the  Yellowstone. 
The  President  at  the  break  of  day 
Had  packed  his  duds  and  moved  away. 
A  brave  Shoshone  chief  came  out 
With  his  willow  pole  to  fish  for  trout. 
It  was  half-past  six  when  he  cast  his  line, 
And  he  kept  on  fishing  till  half-past  nine; 
And  then  he  baited  his  hook  anew 
And  patiently  fished  until  half-past  two — 
The  meanwhile  swearing  a  powerful  sight 
For  fishing  all  day  with  nary  a  bite. 


446  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

And  he  swore  and  fished,  and  fished  and  swore 
Till  his  Elgin  watch  tolled  half-past  four; 
When  a  big,  fat  trout  came  swimming  by 
And  winked  at  the  chief  with  his  cold,  sad  eye. 

"And  do  you  reckon,  you  pagan  soul, 

You  can  catch  us  trout  with  a  willow  pole? 

The  President  taught  us  manners  while 

He  fished  for  us  in  the  latest  style. 

You  've  no  idea  how  proud  we  feel 

To  be  jerked  ashore  with  a  Frankfort  reel!" 

The  red  man  gathered  his  dinner-pail 
And  started  home  by  the  shortest  trail, 
And  he  told  his  faithful  squaw  he  guess'd 
They  'd  better  move  still  farther  west, 
Where  presidents  didn't  come  fooling  about, 
Turning  the  heads  of  the  giddy  trout. 
September  5,  1883. 


A  PLAY  ON  WORDS 

(TO   BE   READ   ALOUD  RAPIDLY) 

ASSERT  ten  Barren  love  day  made 

Dan  woo'd  her  hart  buy  nigh  tan  day; 
Butt  wen  knee  begged  she  'd  marry  hymn, 

The  crewel  bell  may  dancer  neigh. 
Lo  atter  fee  tin  vein  he  side 

Ant  holder  office  offal  pane — 
A  lasses  mown  touched  knot  terse  sole — 

His  grown  was  sever  awl  Lynn  vane. 

"Owe,  beam  my  bride,  my  deer,  rye  prey, 
And  here  mice  size  beef  ore  rye  dye; 

Oak  caste  mean  knot  tin  scorn  neigh  way — 
Yew  are  the  apple  love  me  nigh!" 


HOW   FLAHERTY    KEPT   THE    BRIDGE  447 

She  herd  Dan  new  we  truly  spoke. 

Key  was  of  noble  berth,  and  bread 
Tool  lofty  mean  and  hie  renown, 

The  air  too  grate  testates,  't  was  head. 

"Ewe  wood  due  bettor,  sir,"  she  bald, 

"Took  court  sum  mother  girl,  lie  wean — 
Ewer  knot  mice  stile,  lisle  never  share 

The  thrown  domestic  azure  quean!" 
"  'T  is  dun,  no  farebutt  Scilly  won — 

Aisle  waiste  know  father  size  on  the!" 
Oft  tooth  the  nay  bring  porte  tea  flue 

And  through  himself  into  the  see. 
September  12,  1883. 


HOW  FLAHERTY  KEPT  THE  BRIDGE 

OUT  spake  Horatius  Flaherty, — a  Fenian  bold  was  he, — 
"Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand  and  turn  the  bridge  with  thee! 
So  ring  the  bell,  O'Grady,  and  clear  the  railway  track — 
Muldoon  will  heed  the  summons  well  and  keep  the  street-cars 
back." 

Forthwith  O'Grady  rang  the  bell,  and  straightway  from  afar 
There  came  a  rush  of  humankind  and  over-loaded  car. 
"Back,  back!   a  schooner  cometh,"  the  brave  O'Grady  cried; 
"She  cometh  from  Muskegon,  packed  down  with  horn  and  hide." 

i    And  "Back!"   Muldoon  demanded  and  Flaherty  declaimed, 
While  many  a  man  stopped  short  his  course  and  muttered,  "I  '11 

be  blamed!" 

And  many  a  horse-car  jolted,  and  many  a  driver  swore, 
As  the  tother  gangway  of  the  bridge  swung  off  from  either  shore. 
And  bold  Horatius  Flaherty  a  storm  of  curses  heard, 
But  pushing  bravely  at  his  key,  he  answered  not  a  word; 
And  round  and  round  he  turned  the  bridge  to  let  the  schooner 

through, 


448  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

And  round  and  round  and  round  again  O'Grady  turned  it  too; 
Till  now  at  last  the  way  is  clear,  and  with  a  sullen  toot 
'Twixt  bridge  and  shore,  ten  rods  or  more,  the  tug  and  schooner 
shoot. 


"Now  swing  her  round  the  tother  way,"  the  brave  O'Grady  cried. 
"  'T  is  well!"    Horatius  Flaherty  in  thunder  tones  replied. 
Muldoon  waved  high   his   club   in   air,   his   handkerchief  waved 

high, 

To  see  the  stanch  Muskegon  ship  go  sailing  calmly  by; 
And  as  the  rafters  of  the  bridge  swung  round  to  either  shore, 
Vast  was  the  noise  of  men  and  boys  and  street-cars  passing  o'er. 
And  Flaherty  quoth  proudly,  as  he  mopped  his  sweaty  brow, 
"Well  done  for  you,  and  here's  a  chew,  O'Grady,  for  you  now." 
September  19,  1883. 


'  THE  THREE-CENT  STAMP 

GOOD-BY,  old  stamp;   it 's  nasty  luck 

That  ends  our  friendship  so. 
When  others  failed,  you  gamely  stuck, 

But  now  you  've  got  to  go. 
So  here  's  a  flood  of  honest  tears, 

And  here  's  an  honest  sigh. 
Good-by,  old  friend  of  many  years — 

Good-by,  old  stamp,  good-by! 

Your  life  has  been  a  varied  one, 

With  curious  phases  fraught — 
Sometimes  a  check,  sometimes  a  dun, 

Your  daily  coming  brought; 
Smiles  to  a  waiting  lover's  face, 

Tears  to  a  mother's  eye, 
Or  joy  or  pain  to  every  place — 

Good-by,  old  stamp,  good-by! 


BIG  THURSDAY  449 

You  bravely  toiled,  and  better  men 

Will  vouch  for  what  I  say; 
Although  you  have  been  licked,  't  was  when 

Your  face  turned  t'  other  way. 
'T  was  often  in  a  box  you  got 

(As  you  will  not  deny) 
For  going  through  the  mails,  I  wot — 

Good-by,  old  stamp,  good-by! 

Ah,  in  your  last  expiring  breath 

The  tale  of  years  is  heard — 
The  sound  of  voices  hushed  in  death, 

A  mother's  dying  word, 
A  maiden's  answer,  soft  and  sweet, 

A  wife's  regretful  sigh, 
The  patter  of  a  baby's  feet — 

Good-by,  old  stamp,  good-by! 

What  wonder,  then,  that  at  this  time 

When  you  and  I  must  part, 
I  should  aspire  to  speak  in  rhyme 

The  promptings  of  my  heart? 
Go,  bide  with  all  those  mem'ries  dear 

That  live  when  others  die; 
You'  ve  nobly  served  your  purpose  here— 

Good-by,  old  stamp,  good-by! 
September  24,  1883. 


BIG  THURSDAY 

IN  this  week's  history  of  the  Fair, 

To-day  will  be  the  banner  day. 
The  commonwealth  will  all  be  there 

To  view  the  truly  grand  display. 
The  country  folk  from  miles  around 

Will  gather  in  this  monstrous  hive, 
And  will  in  wondering  groups  be  found 

Where  pigs  and  cows  and  squashes  thrive. 


450  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

The  rural  bumpkin  and  his  gal 

Will  proudly  note  the  Lima  bean 
And  golden  pumpkin  from  La  Salle, 

The  sweet  potato  from  Moline, 
The  toothsome  cheese  from  Kankakee, 

The  turnip  bred  in  Kickapoo; 
And  squashes  fair  and  round  we  '11  see 

From  Crete  and  Big  Foot  Prairie,  too. 

Or,  fancying  live  stock,  they  will  ponder 

On  blooded  cattle  by  the  drove — 
Sleek  Berkshire  bullocks  from  Golconda, 

And  Durham  swine  from  Downer's  Grove: 
On  gentle  Southdown  mules  from  Pana, 

On  Poland  China  sheep  from  Niles, 
On  calves  from  Buda  and  Urbana, 

And  likewise  cows  in  divers  styles. 

Unhappy,  most  unhappy  being 

Who  thinks  to  stay  away  from  there — 
Who  misses  all  such  sights  worth  seeing 

At  and  around  our  glorious  Fair! 
So  don,  O  youth,  your  paper  collar, 

And  prink  your  best,  O  maiden  gay, 
A  ticket  costs  but  half  a  dollar — 

Go  join  the  multitude  to-day! 
September  27,  1883. 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  PASADENE 

COME,  now,  who  is  this  Pasadene 
That  such  a  whirl  of  praises  warrants? 

And  is  a  rose 

Her  only  clo'es  ? 
Oh,  fie  upon  you,  Billy  Florence  I 


A   NIGHTMARE  451 

Ah,  no;   that 's  your  poetic  way 

Of  turning  loose  your  rhythmic  torrents. 

This  Pasadene 

Is  not  your  queen — 
We  know  you  know  we  know  it,  Florence! 

So  sing  your  song  of  women-folks; 

We  '11  read  without  the  least  abhorrence, 

Because  we  know 

Through  weal  and  woe 
Your  queen  is  Mrs.  Billy  Florence  I 
January  3,  1887. 


A  NIGHTMARE 

(CAUSED  BY  FAILURE  TO  DIGEST  A  BLANKET-SHEET) 

DID  I  dream?     Was 't  a  fancy 

Of  weird  necromancy 
That  mingled  the  living  with  shades  of  the  dead  ? 

Was  't  a  deep  meditation, 

Or  hallucination 
Provoked  by  a  paper  I  had  but  just  read  ? 

Blanket-sheet  editor 

Sat  in  his  den, 
With  his  yardstick  and  tape-measure, 

Paste-pot  and  pen, 
When  there  came  to  the  doorway 

And  stood  in  a  row 

The  spirits  of  Shakspere, 

Of  Addison,  Poe, 
Jlnd  a  multitude  more 

Of  the  same  brainy  school; 
And  one  in  clown's  raiment — 

A  poor  verbose  fool. 


452  SHARPS    AND    FLATS 

"So  you  're  looking  for  places?" 

The  editor  said. 
Each  shade  in  his  turn 

Gave  a  nod  of  the  head. 
"How  much  can  you  write 

In  the  course  of  a  day?" 
The  spirits  proceeded 

Their  work  to  display. 

One  had  written  a  sonnet 

Of  usual  length; 
Another  a  paragraph 

Towering  in  strength; 
Still  another  romanced 

In  sensational  strain — 
Every  thought  a  rare  gem 

From  a  procreant  brain. 

Then  forth  from  his  bag 

The  poor,  motley  clown  brought 
A  haymow  of  words 

With  a  needle  of  thought; 
And  the  editor  measured 

Them  all  with  his  rule, 
And  dismissed  every  spirit 

Save  that  of  the  fool. 
October  3,  1883. 


BACHELOR  HALL 

IT  seems  like  a  dream — that  sweet  wooing  of  old- 
Like  a  legend  of  fairies  on  pages  of  gold — 
Too  soon  the  sweet  story  of  loving  was  closed, 
Too  rudely  awakened  the  soul  that  reposed; 
I  kissed  the  white  lips  that  lay  under  the  pall, 
And  crept  back  to  you,  lonely  Bachelor  Hall, 


HUMAN    NATURE  453 

Mine  eyes  have  grown  dim  and  my  hair  has  turned  white, 

But  my  heart  beats  as  warmly  and  gayly  to-night 

As  in  days  that  are  gone  and  years  that  are  fled— 

Though  I  fill  up  my  flagon  and  drink  to  the  dead; 

For  over  my  senses  sweet  memories  fall, 

And  the  dead  is  come  back  to  old  Bachelor  Hall. 

I  see  her  fair  face  through  a  vapor  of  tears, 

And  her  sweet  voice  comes  back  o'er  the  desert  of  years, 

And  I  hear,  oh,  so  gently,  the  promises  she  spoke, 

And  a  soft,  spirit  hand  soothes  the  heart  that  is  broke; 

So  I  fill  up  the  flagon,  and  drink — that  is  all — 

To  the  dead  and  the  dying  of  Bachelor  Hall. 

October  5,  1883. 


HUMAN  NATURE 

A  BEGGAR-MAN  crept  to  my  side 

One  bitter,  wintry  time; 
"I  want  to  buy  a  drink,"  he  cried; 

"Please  give  me,  sir,  a  dime." 
If  he  had  craved  this  boon  forlorn 

To  buy  his  family  meat, 
I  had  passed  on  in  silent  scorn, 

And  left  him  in  the  street. 

I  tossed  the  money  in  his  hand, 

And  quoth:  "As  o'er  your  wine 
Within  the  tippling-room  you  stand 

Drink  thou  to  me  and  mine." 
He  let  an  earnest  "Thank  ye"  drop — • 

Then  up  the  street  he  sped, 
And  rushed  into  a  baker's  shop, 

And  bought  a  loaf  of  bread! 


454  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

I  know  not  why  it  was,  and  yet, 

So  sudden  was  the  blow, 
I  felt  emotions  of  regret 

That  he  had  duped  me  so. 
Yet,  had  the  hungry  beggar  said 

That  he  was  sore  in  need 
Of  that  necessity  called  "  bread," 

What  man  would  pay  him  heed  ? 
October  10,  1883. 


A  VERY  WEARY  ACTOR 

AMBER  clouds  on  a  cobalt  sky, 
The  hour  for  work  is  drawing  nigh! 

An  all-night  journey,  an  aching  head, 
A  longing  to  strike  and  go  to  bed! 

Not  a  friend  to  greet  or  a  friend  to  meet, 
A  lonely  room  on  a  noisy  street. 

A  silent  meal  in  a  crowded  room, 
A  silent  smoke  in  a  cloud  of  gloom. 

A  scene  rehearsed,  a  stammering  crew, 
Letters  received,  and  more  work  to  do. 

Business  bothers,  intrigues,  and  war; 
The  future  a  blank,  the  present  a  bore. 

A  cup  of  strong  tea,  a  smoke,  and  I  'd  better 
Screw  up  my  courage,  and  seek  the  theatre. 

Dress  for  an  hour  in  a  cell  that  is  stifling, 

And  then  play  a  part  with  a  heart — but  I  'm  trifling. 

(Attributed  to)  RICHARD  MANSFIELD. 
October  25,  1883. 


GETTYSBURG  455 


GETTYSBURG 

You  wore  the  blue  and  I  the  gray 

On  this  historic  field; 
And  all  throughout  the  dreadful  fray 

We  felt  our  muscles  steeled 
For  deeds  which  men  may  never  know, 
Nor  page  of  history  ever  show. 

My  father,  sir,  with  soul  to  dare, 
Throughout  the  day  and  night, 

Stood  on  old  Little  Round  Top  there, 
And  watched  the  changeful  fight, 

And,  with  a  hoarse,  inspiring  cry, 

Held  up  the  stars  and  bars  on  high. 

At  last  the  flag  went  down,  and  then — 
Ah,  you  can  guess  the  rest — 

I  never  saw  his  face  again. 
My  father's  loyal  breast 

Is  strewn  with  these  sweet  flow'rs,  I  wot, 

That  seem  to  love  this  sacred  spot. 

The  smoke  of  battle  's  cleared  away, 

And  all  its  hatreds,  too; 
And  as  I  clasp  your  hand  to-day, 

O  man  who  wore  the  blue, 
On  yonder  hill  I  seem  to  see 
My  father  smiling  down  on  me. 
October  27,  1883. 


HER  FAIRY  FEET 

"BRING  me  a  tiny  mouse's  skin," 
The  boisterous  tanner  cried; 

"It  must  be  as  a  rose-leaf  thin 
And  scarce  three  fingers  wide." 


456  SHARPS    AND    FLATS 

He  seized  the  fragile,  tiny  bit 

Within  his  brawny  hand, 
And  cast  it  in  the  seething  pit, 

And  so  the  skin  was  tann'd. 

Then  came  a  cobbler  to  his  side. 

With  tools  that  cobblers  use, 
And  deft  they  wrought  that  mouse's  hide 

Into  a  pair  of  shoes. 

"Tell  me,"  I  asked,  "O  cobbler,  tell 
For  whom  these  morceaux  be  ?  " 

"A  lover  bade  me  build  them  well 
For  his  true  love,"  quoth  he. 

" Where  dwells  this  maid  with  fairy  feet?" 

In  wonderment  I  cried; 
The  old  man  shifted  in  his  seat — 

"Chicago,"  he  replied. 
October  29,  1883. 


THE  REMORSEFUL  CAKES 

A  LITTLE  boy  named  Thomas  ate 
Hot  buckwheat  cakes  for  tea — 

A  very  rash  proceeding,  as 
We  presently  shall  see. 

He  went  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock, 

As  all  good  children  do, 
But  scarce  had  closed  his  little  eyes, 

When  he  most  restless  grew. 

He  flopped  on  this  side,  then  on  that, 
Then  keeled  upon  his  head, 

And  covered  all  at  once  each  spot 
Of  his  wee  trundle-bed. 


457 


He  wrapped  one  leg  around  his  waist 

And  t'  other  round  his  ear, 
While  mamma  wondered  what  on  earth 

Could  ail  her  little  dear. 

But  sound  he  slept,  and  as  he  slept 

He  dreamt  an  awful  dream 
Of  being  spanked  with  hickory  slabs 

Without  the  power  to  scream. 

He  dreamt  a  great  big  lion  came 
And  ripped  and  raved  and  roared — 

WThile  on  his  breast  two  furious  bulls 
In  mortal  combat  gored. 

He  dreamt  he  heard  the  flop  of  wings 

Within  the  chimney-flue — 
And  down  there  crawled,  to  gnaw  his  ears, 

An  awful  bugaboo! 

When  Thomas  rose  next  morn,  his  face 

Was  pallid  as  a  sheet; 
"I  nevermore,"  he  firmly  said, 

"Will  cakes  for  supper  eat!" 
November  6,  1883. 


A  PATRIOT'S  TRIUMPH 

GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS  met  a  lad 

As  down  the  street  he  hied. 
"Pray  tell  me,  boy,  if  eke  you  can, 

Where  Schurz  doth  now  reside." 
"In  sooth  I  can,  my  gentle  sir," 

The  honest  lad  replied; 
"Proceed  due  north  and  soon  you  '11  come 

To  where  he  doth  abide." 


458  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

"You  speak  some  words  I  ken  not  of," 

George  William  Curtis  cried; 
"Now  tell  in  speech  non-sectional 

Where  doth  my  friend  reside. 
I  know  not  north — Schurz  knows  no  south; 

Such  terms  do  ill  betide. 
The  north  is  south — the  south  is  north — 

The  west  the  east,  beside." 

"Good  sir,  you  jest,"  complained  the  youth, 

And  hung  his  fuddled  head. 
"Nay,  foolish  boy,  I  speak  the  truth," 

George  William  Curtis  said; 
"Lo,  from  the  south  the  north  wind  blows 

And  eke  the  rising  tide, 
That  splashes  on  our  eastern  shores, 

Laves  all  the  western  side. 

"The  snows  do  fall  on  southern  soil 

And  on  the  prairies  wide; 
The  cotton  on  the  northern  hills 

Is  now  the  Yankee's  pride. 
There  is  no  north — there  is  no  south — 

These  terms  have  long  since  died; 
So  tell  in  reconstructed  speech 

Where  now  doth  Schurz  reside." 

"Good  master,  turn  ye  to  the  west, 

And  on  the  eastern  side 
Adown  the  northern  path,  due  south, 

Two  blocks  he  doth  abide." 
George  William  Curtis  missed  his  way, 

But  still  it  gave  him  joy 
To  know  our  land  had  gained  that  day 

A  reconstructed  boy. 
November  7,  1883. 


459 


"YOURS  FRATERNALLY" 

AN  editor  in  Kankakee 

Once  falling  in  a  burning  passion 
With  a  vexatious  rival,  he 

Wrote  him  a  letter  in  this  fashion: 
"You  are  an  ass  uncouth  and  rude, 

And  will  be  one  eternally." 
Then,  in  an  absent-minded  mood, 

He  signed  it  ''Yours  fraternally." 
November  9,  1883. 


SONG  OF  THE  ALL-WOOL  SHIRT 

MY  father  bought  an  undershirt 

Of  bright  and  flaming  red — 
"All  wool,  I  'm  ready  to  assert, 

Fleece-dyed,"  the  merchant  said; 
"Your  size  is  thirty-eight,  I  think; 

A  forty  you  should  get, 
Since  all-wool  goods  are  bound  to  shrink 

A  trifle  when  they  're  wet." 

That  shirt  two  weeks  my  father  wore — 

Two  washings,  that  was  all; 
From  forty  down  to  thirty-four 

It  shrank  like  leaf  in  fall. 
I  wore  it  then  a  day  or  two, 

But  when  't  was  washed  again 
My  wife  said,  "Now  't  will  only  do 

For  little  brother  Ben." 

A  fortnight  Ben  squeezed  into  it; 

At  last  he  said  it  hurt. 
We  put  it  on  our  babe — the  fit 

Was  good  as  any  shirt. 


460  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

We  ne'er  will  wash  it  more  while  yet 
We  see  its  flickering  light, 

For  if  again  that  shirt  is  wet 
'T  will  vanish  from  our  sight. 

December  6,  1883. 


OF  BLESSED  MEMORY 

I  OFTEN  wonder  mother  loves  to  creep 

Up  to  the  garret  where  a  cupboard  stands, 

And  sit  upon  the  musty  floor  and  weep, 
Holding  a  baby's  dresses  in  her  hands. 

I  often  wonder  grandma  loves  to  sit 

Alone  where  hangs  a  picture  on  the  wall — 

A  handsome  face  across  whose  features  flit 
The  phantoms  of  a  love  she  would  recall. 

I  wonder,  too,  that  sister,  pale  and  sad, 

Waits  at  the  gate,  and,  waiting,  seems  to  hear 

The  footfalls  of  the  brave,  heroic  lad 

Who  nevermore  may  woo  her  waiting  there. 

ENVOY 

The  little  lips  in  voiceless  death  are  sealed; 

The  haughty  squire  seeks  now  a  lasting  sleep: 
The  lover's  bones  bleach  on  a  battle-field— 

And  broken-hearted  women  live  to  weep. 
December  11,  1883. 


A  LEAP-YEAR  EPISODE 

CAN  I  forget  that  winter  night 

In  eighteen  eighty-four, 
When  Nellie,  charming  little  sprite, 

Came  tapping  at  the  door? 


A    LEAP-YEAR   EPISODE  461 

"Good  evening,  miss,"  I,  blushing,  said, 

For  in  my  heart  I  knew — 
And,  knowing,  hung  my  pretty  head — 

That  Nellie  came  to  woo. 

She  clasped  my  big  red  hand,  and  fell 

Adown  upon  her  knees, 
And  cried:  "You  know  I  love  you  well, 

So  be  my  husband,  please!" 
And  then  she  swore  she  'd  ever  be 

A  tender  wife  and  true. 
Ah,  what  delight  it  was  to  me 

That  Nellie  came  to  woo! 

She  'd  lace  my  shoes,  and  darn  my  hose, 

And  mend  my  shirts,  she  said; 
And  grease  my  comely  Roman  nose 

Each  night  on  going  to  bed; 
She  'd  build  the  fires,  and  fetch  the  coal, 

And  split  the  kindling,  too. 
Love's  perjuries  o'erwhelmed  her  soul 

When  Nellie  came  to  woo. 

And  as  I,  blushing,  gave  no  check 

To  her  advances  rash, 
She  twined  her  arms  about  my  neck, 

And  toyed  with  my  mustache; 
And  then  she  pleaded  for  a  kiss, 

While  I — what  could  I  do 
But  coyly  yield  me  to  that  bliss 

When  Nellie  came  to  woo? 

I  am  engaged,  and  proudly  wear 

A  gorgeous  diamond  ring, 
And  I  shall  wed  my  lover  fair 

Sometime  in  gentle  spring. 
I  face  my  doom  without  a  sigh; 

And  so,  forsooth,  would  you, 
If  you  but  loved  as  fond  as  I, 

And  Nellie  came  to  woo. 
December  22,  1883. 


462  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 


THE  DEBUTANTE 

HAVE  you  got  the  jellies  made,  mother? 

Are  the  sandwiches  au  fait  ? 
Are  the  salads  wrought  and  the  wine  all  bought 

For  the  splurge  on  New  Year's  day? 
You  look  serene  as  a  regnant  queen, 

But  there  '11  be  some  hitch,  I  fear, 
For  I  'm  to  receive  this  year,  mother — 

I  'm  to  receive  this  year. 

My  dress  is  such  a  daisy,  mother, 

What  wonder  if  I  am  vain  ? 
'T  is  a  white  pique,  decollete", 

With  a  princesse  skirt,  en  train. 
That 's  why  I  yearn  and  impatient  burn 

For  the  splurge  that  is,  oh,  so  near, 
For  I  'm  to  receive  this  year,  mother — 

I  'm  to  receive  this  year. 

Jack  says  he  will  come  at  ten,  mother, 

And  tarry  the  rest  of  the  day. 
Why  turn  up  your  nose  ?     You  don't  suppose 

He  'd  dare  to  stay  away  ? 
Though  Jack  is  proud  and  hates  a  crowd, 

I  'm  certain  he  will  be  here, 
For  I  'm  to  receive  this  year,  mother — 

I  'm  to  receive  this  year. 

So  call  me  at  half-past  eight,  mother — 

Don't  let  me  sleep  till  nine. 
I  've  crimped  my  hair,  and  over  the  chair 

I  've  thrown  my  dresses  fine; 
At  half-past  eight — now  don't  be  late — 

Come  early,  O  mother  dear, 
For  I  'm  to  receive  this  year,  mother — 

I  'm  to  receive  this  year. 
December  27,  1883. 


THE   MODERN    MARTYR  463 


THE  MODERN  MARTYR 

"ONLY  an  editor's  wife,"  they  say, 
As  she  rides  along  in  her  proud  coupe"; 
But  they  all  confess  that  her  face  is  fair, 
That  her  form  is  lovely  beyond  compare, 
That  her  robes  are  rich  and  her  jewels  rare, 
That  her  heart  is  warm  and  her  gold  is  free; 
Yet  "only  an  editor's  wife"  is  she! 

Do  they  envy  her  laces  and  silks  so  grand, 

Or  the  diamonds  she  wears  on  her  white  left  hand, 

Or  the  satin  train  that  sweeps  in  her  track, 

Or  the  elegant  three-ply  sealskin  sack 

That  gracefully  covers  her  shapely  back? 

Or  why  do  the  people  derisively  cry 

When  "only  an  editor's  wife"  rides  by? 

Do  they  envy  the  palace  where  she  abides, 

Or  the  gilded  coach  in  which  she  rides, 

Or  her  yacht  that  sports  with  the  lake's  white  foam, 

Or  the  troop  of  servants  that  go  and  come 

To  do  her  will  in  her  regal  home? 

Do  they  envy  her  gold  when  they  descry 

That  it 's  "only  an  editor's  wife"  goes  by? 

They  never  think  of  the  man  who  writes 
Through  the  weary  days  and  the  darksome  nights, 
To  earn  the  ducats  with  which  to  pay 
For  the  laces  fine  and  the  jewels  gay, 
And  the  robes  en  train  and  decollete", 
And  the  other  trappings  that  greet  the  eye 
When  "only  an  editor's  wife  "sails  by. 

Oh,  could  they  go  to  his  working-place, 
And  see  his  furrowed  and  pallid  face, 
And  know  the  grind  of  his  daily  life, — 


464  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

How  he  freely  encounters  all  toil  and  strife 
To  humor  the  whims  of  his  petted  wife, — 
Methinks  they  would  raise  their  plaudits  high 
When  "only  an  editor's  wife"  rode  by. 
January  10,  1884. 


AN  OHIO  IDYL 

O  FATHERS  all,  reflect  upon 

The  touching  story  and  the  fate 

Of  hapless  Mr.  Pendleton, 
Who  had  a  daughter  and  a  gate. 

Once  said  this  Mr.  Pendleton 

To  dapper  little  John  McLean: 
"Here,  now,  get  off  that  gate,  my  son, 

And  don't  come  hanging  round  again! 
You  're  not  their  style,  my  daughters  say; 

Your  visits  do  not  bring  them  joy. 
Get  off  the  gate  and  run  away — 

Come,  there  's  a  clever  little  boy!" 

Then  dapper  little  John  McLean 

Sought  out  another  quiet  street, 
Where  lived  a  certain  Mr.  Payne, 

Who  had  a  daughter  young  and  sweet; 
Engaging  this  enchanting  miss 

In  many  a  twilight  te"te-a-tete, 
He  whiled  away  long  hours  of  bliss 

In  swinging  on  the  old  man's  gate. 

Lo,  some  years  after,  Messrs.  Payne 

And  Pendleton  were  candidates; 
Then  did  the  dapper  John  McLean 

Recall  the  story  of  the  gates. 
He  lent  his  vengeful  nature  to 

Manipulations  darkly  deft — 
And  Mr.  Payne  pulled  glibly  through, 

While  Pendleton  got  badly  left. 


A   SCHERZO  465 


So,  fathers  all,  reflect  upon 

The  touching  story  and  the  fate 

Of  hapless  Mr.  Pendleton, 

Who  had  a  daughter  and  a  gate. 

January  15,  1884. 


A  SCHERZO 

ONE  night  the  charming  Gerster  said, 

"Now  listen,  colonel,  to  me: 
I  will  not  sing — I  '11  quit  instead— 

Unless  I  'm  paid  what 's  due  me. 
I  'm  mad  to  think  that  you  should  think 

That  I  am  such  a  greeny 
To  let  you  lavish  all  the  chink 

On  Mrs.  Nicolini!" 

Then  Mapleson  in  guileful  vein 

Protested  he  was  busted; 
And  Gerster  on  the  midnight  train 

Incontinently  dusted. 
Back  to  her  babe  in  York  she  hied, — 

This  operatic  charmer, — 
And  put  all  other  roles  aside 

For  that  of  simple  mamma. 

But  Mapleson,  when  she  had  fled, 

Forthwith  began  to  worry; 
The  telegram  he  sent  her  said: 

"Come  back,  and  please  to  hurry. 
I  '11  build  a  palace-car  for  you, 

And  bear  your  tantrums  meekly, 
And  pay  your  salary  when  it 's  due — 

That  is  to  say,  tri- weekly." 

So  back  to  Mapleson  went  she 

As  sweet  as  dripping  honey, 
And  now  is  happy  as  can  be 

Because  she  got  her  money. 


466  SHARPS  AND   FLATS 

When  asked  what  caused  the  recent  row 
They  answer  't  was  the  baby; 

This  fairy  tale  's  sufficient  now 
To  fool  the  public,  maybe. 

January  29,  1884. 


1  AN  OHIO  DITTY 

MARY  had  a  little  lamb, 

Down  in  Ohio  state, 
And,  ere  it  grew  to  be  a  ram, 

Most  dismal  was  its  fate. 

Its  fleece  was  long  and  white  and  full, 

And  Mary  loved  to  shear 
Her  lamb  for  the  amount  of  wool 

It  brought  her  twice  a  year. 

But  once,  upon  a  summer's  day, 
She  learned,  to  her  dejection, 

Her  wool  investment  didn't  pay — 
And  so  she  craved  protection. 

And  then,  with  many  a  pleading  word 

And  copious  flow  of  tears, 
She  flew  to  genial  Mr.  Hurd 

To  set  at  rest  her  fears. 

But  Mr.  Hurd  in  scorn  did  hold 

Poor  Mary  and  her  kid, 
And  when  their  tale  of  woe  was  told 

No  kindly  act  he  did. 

In  vain  for  help  the  maiden  cried 

Upon  her  bended  knees. 
"No  tariff,  girl,"  the  man  replied; 

"(TO,  serve  your  lamb  with  peas!" 


467 


So  Mary  slew  her  little  lamb — 
As  might  have  been  expected, 

For  little  lambs  are  n't  worth  a  d- 
When  they  are  not  protected. 

January  28,  1884. 


A  GOOD  MAN'S  SORROW 

ABOU  BEN  HALSTEAD — may  his  tribe  increase! — 

Thinking  one  night  to  steal  a  sweet  surcease 

From  office  \vork,  of  which  he  'd  had  a  greed, 

Called  to  his  side  his  faithful  Romeo  Reed, 

And  quoth:  "By  Allah  and  his  great  horned  spoon, 

I  will  go  home  and  sleep  me  until  noon 

If  I  can  get  a  paragraph  from  you 

To  pull  to-morrow's  editorial  through; 

Now,  mind  you,  one  short  paragraph  will  do!" 

Good  Romeo  Reed  inclined  his  reverend  head — 
"Ismillah  robang!"  ("Good  enough!")  he  said; 
And  Halstead  straightway  hied  himself  to  bed. 

Abou  Ben  Halstead  woke  next  day  at  nine, 
And  having  quaffed,  as  is  his  wont,  his  wine, 
Called  for  the  paper,  which  he  always  read 
Propped  up  by  pillows  in  his  regal  bed. 
He  seized  the  sheet,  and  with  an  eager  flout 
He  turned  the  mammoth  paper  inside  out 
To  see  what  Romeo  Reed  had  writ  about. 
Abou  Ben  Halstead's  cheeks  grew  very  red; 
He  frothed  awhile,  and  stood  upon  his  head; 
His  mournful  eyes  were  all  ablaze  with  fire, 
His  noble  frame  quaked  with  demoniac  ire. 
Lo!   Romeo's  paragraph  filled  up  the  page  entire! 
February  20,  1884. 


468  SHARPS    AND    FLATS 


LAMENT  OF  A  NEGLECTED  BOSS 

WITH  not  a  faithful  lackey  nigh, 

With  all  my  vast  resources  spent, 
I  find  myself  enshrouded  by 

The  winter  of  my  discontent. 
Gone  are  the  hours  of  tranquil  bliss 

I  fondly  used  to  count  mine  own, 
And  I,  at  last,  am  come  to  this — 

The  running  of  a  telephone! 

Before  I  took  this  paltry  thing 

That  keeps  a-jingling  all  the  day, 
I  was  a  most  puissant  king, 

And  most  despotic  was  my  sway. 
Proud  was  my  lot  and  proud  my  mien; 

I  sat  upon  a  gilded  throne 
And  bossed  a  radical  machine 

Where  now  I  boss  a  telephone! 

Pause,  O  ye  countrymen  of  mine, 

And  drop  a  sympathetic  tear, 
And  carve  to  me  this  touching  line: 

"Oh,  what  a  falling  off  is  here!" 
Dear  Riddleberger  and  Mahone, 

Grant  sweet  surcease  unto  my  woe 
By  wafting  through  my  telephone 

A  fond,  occasional  hello! 
March  17,  1884. 


ROMANCE  OF  A  "CUSS-WORD" 

BROAD  expanse  of  shiny  shirt-front, 
Cuffs  and  collar  white  to  match, 

Overcoat  with  silken  facing — 
Just  the  rig  to  make  a  catch. 


COLD    CONSOLATION  469 

Pretty  lady  coming  toward  him; 

He  prepares  to  make  a  mash; 
Meets  a  stumbling  horse  on  crossing — 

Mud  flies  o'er  him  with  a  splash! 

Man  who  looked  so  sweet  and  gentle, 

Like  a  little  suckling  lamb, 
Now  becomes  a  raving  lion; 

Girl  goes  by  and  hears  him  d — n. 

Girl  is  shocked  beyond  expression — 

Thinks  his  language  simply  vile; 
Yet  believes  that  she  can  save  him — 

Meets  him  next  time  with  a  smile. 

Man  apologizes  bravely, 

Says  his  anger  made  him  rash. 
Girl  replies  it  but  convinced  her 

He  's  a  man  of  proper  dash. 

They  are  married  in  November; 

Wife  is  over  all  her  scare; 
Says  she  thought  him  soft  and  sickish 

Till  the  day  she  heard  him  swear. 
March  20,  1884. 


COLD  CONSOLATION 

I  AM  booming,  brother,  booming; 

As  the  tide  of  time  rolls  on 
Thou  wilt  see  me  higher  looming 

In  thy  pathway,  dearest  John. 
But  oh,  brother,  in  thy  sorrow 

Turn  thou  not  thy  face  away; 
Be  for  me,  dear  John,  to-morrow, 

As  for  thee  I  am  to-day. 


470  SHARPS    AND    FLATS 

I  am  booming,  brother,  booming; 

See  the  tempests  toss  my  plume; 
See  the  friends  about  me  grooming, 

Grooming  lovingly  my  boom. 
Lose  no  time,  nor  stumble  blindly 

Into  error,  Brother  John; 
To  my  boom,  I  tell  thee  kindly, 

Soon  or  late  thou  must  catch  on. 
March  21,  1884. 


MR.  HOLMAN'S  FAREWELL 

THE  little  boom  they  said  was  vain 

Will  strike  them  now  as  vainer, 
Since  you  have  got  aboard  the  train 
And  started  o'er  the  cactus  plain, 
O  frail  and  fickle  Dana! 

For  when  you  reach  the  marble  halls 

Of  pagan  Montezuma, 
What  ear  will  heed  my  piteous  calls 
Amid  the  havoc  that  appalls 

A  boom  without  a  boomer? 

Perhaps  some  charm  of  that  proud  place 

Will  swerve  you  from  your  duty — 
Will  tempt  you  to  forget  my  face, 
My  artless  ways  and  simple  grace, 
My  modest  Hoosier  beauty. 

If  so  it  be,  my  face  will  haunt 

Your  soul  where'er  you  linger; 
Within  your  ears  I  '11  breathe  a  taunt, 
Within  your  eyes  I  '11  ever  flaunt 
My  pale  and  bony  finger. 


T,HE   APRIL   FOOL  471 

Like  amorous  Dido  am  I  left 

To  torturesome  reflection — 
Deceived,  cajoled,  betrayed,  bereft, 
My  trusting  heart  by  anguish  cleft — 

Though  not  without  OBJECTION. 
March  22,  1884. 


THE  APRIL  FOOL 

FAIR  was  her  young  and  girlish  face, 

Her  lips  were  luscious  red  as  wine; 
Her  willowy  form  betrayed  a  grace 

That  seemed  to  me  to  be  divine. 
One  evening  at  the  trysting-place 

I  asked  this  maiden  to  be  mine. 
Unhappy,  thrice-unhappy  youth 

Was  I  to  court  the  crushing  blow; 
But  why  delay  the  awful  truth — 

She  April-fooled  me  years  ago! 

Filled  with  a  ghastly,  grim  dismay 

As  kneeling  at  her  feet  I  heard 
This  fair  but  cruel  angel  say 

That  last,  unhappy,  severing  word, 
I  fluttered  hopelessly  away 

Like  some  forlorn  and  stricken  bird. 
For  years  I  played  the  cynic's  part, 

For  years  I  nursed  my  secret  woe; 
And  this  reflection  galled  my  heart — 

She  April-fooled  me  years  ago! 

But  she  is  forty  now,  and  fat, 
And  vanished  all  her  graces  are: 

And  many  a  lusty,  brawling  brat 

Pulls  at  her  skirts  and  calls  her  "ma,3 

And  I  have  information  that 

Her  horrid  husband  tends  a  bar. 


472  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

And  when  I  see  that  fleeting  years 
Have  changed  my  quondam  angel  so, 

I  thank  my  stars,  'mid  grateful  tears, 
She  April-fooled  me  years  ago! 

March  27,  1884.    ' 


THE  OLD  SEXTON 

NIGH  to  a  boom  that  was  newly  made 

Leaned  Charles  A.  Dana  on  his  pick  and  spade: 

He  smiled  sardonic  and  paused  to  wait 

The  funeral  train  through  the  open  gate. 

A  savage  editor  man  was  he, 

And  his  eyes  were  aflame  with  demoniac  glee 

As  these  words  came  from  his  lips  so  thin: 

"I  gather  them  in — I  gather  them  in! 

"I  gather  them  in,  and  their  final  rest 

Is  here — down  here  in  the  earth's  dark  breast. 

Hancock  I  buried  four  years  ago 

'Neath  a  mossy  mound  where  the  daisies  blow,: 

Holman  and  Bayard  and  Field  I  boom, 

Only  to  leave  them  where  violets  bloom; 

For,  heedless  of  what  their  grandeur  has  been, 

I  gathered  them  in — I  gathered  them  in! 

"I  gather  them  in,  and  I  never  care 
How  the  victims  rage  or  the  people  swear; 
Thurman,  McDonald,  and  Flower,  too, 
Have  gently  flocked  to  my  hullabaloo, 
And  now  I  am  patiently  waiting  here 
For  the  Grover  Cleveland  boom  to  appear; 
And,  blind  to  the  chances  it  has  to  win, 
I  '11  gather  it  in— I  '11  gather  it  in!" 
July  5,  1884. 


OGLESBY    (1884)  473 


OGLESBY   (1884) 

WHEN  treason  boldly  stalked  the  land 

And  poisoned  hearts  of  men 
Till  traitors  rose  on  every  hand, 

A  patriot  called  us  then; 
We  followed,  comrade, — you  and  I, — 

Where  death  and  wounds  were  thick, 
And  gloried  in  the  battle-cry, 

"Hurrah  for  Uncle  Dick!" 

They  say  that  we,  who  knew  no  fears 

Of  death  and  carnage  then, 
Are  summoned  in  these  after  years, 

To  follow  him  again; 
Not  with  the  gun  nor  with  the  sword, 

But  with  the  hoe  and  pick, 
We  come,  a  brave,  determined  horde — 

Hurrah  for  Uncle  Dick! 

His  waving  hair  was  black  as  night 

In  that  dear  long  ago; 
But  now  with  care  and  age  't  is  white 

As  first  December  snow; 
But  round  that  old  and  whitened  head 

Have  honors,  fast  and  thick, 
A  grand,  majestic  halo  shed — 

Hurrah  for  Uncle  Dick! 

Once  tall  and  stately  was  the  form 

That  now  is  stooped  and  bent; 
Wait  till  he  scents  the  coming  storm 

And  marks  the  base  intent 
Of  foemen  circling  round  about, 

And  see  how  pow'rful  quick 
That  grave  old  body  straightens  out — 

Hurrah  for  Uncle  Dick! 

And  as  we  rallied  in  the  fray 
W7ith  him  long  years  ago, 


474  SHARPS    AND    FLATS 

So  do  we  rally  round,  to-day, 
The  chief  we  reverence  so. 

Beware  the  foe,  O  patriots  true, 
Beware  each  traitorous  trick. 

We  still  are  soldiers  of  the  blue — 
Hurrah  for  Uncle  Dick! 

July  10,  1884. 


THE  POLITICAL  MAUD 

BEN  BUTLEK,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Stood  in  a  convention  making  hay; 
The  hay  was  sweet  and  the  hay  was  dry, 
But  it  was  n't  as  cocked  as  old  Ben's  eye; 
For  old  Ben  saw  on  a  gelding  gay 
Judge  Nomination  ride  that  way. 

When  the  judge  saw  Ben  in  the  hay  at  work, 
He  stopped  his  horse  with  a  sudden  jerk, 
And  he  rolled  his  eyes  on  the  winsome  face 
And  the  buxom  form  and  the  air  of  grace 
And  the  wealth  of  cheek  and  the  mesh  of  hair 
Of  sweet  Ben  Butler  a-working  there. 

"Oh,"  sighed  the  judge,  "that  the  fate  were  mine 

To  wed  with  a  creature  so  divine! 

With  Ben  for  a  mate,  my  life  would  seem 

Like  a  poet's  song  or  an  artist's  dream; 

But,  when  they  heard  of  my  marital  pick, 

How  like  a  steer  some  folks  would  kick!" 

So,  fearful  of  what  his  folks  might  say, 

Judge  Nomination  rode  away, 

And  left  Ben  Butler  standing  there 

With  her  wealth  of  cheek  and  her  mesh  of  hair; 

And  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  and  pen 

The  saddest  are  these:     "He  would  n't  have  Ben." 

July  11,  1884. 


A   VIRGILIAN    PICNIC  475 


A  VIRGILIAN  PICNIC 

"CoME,  Chloe,  beauteous  maiden,  come, 

And  here,  within  the  flowery  shade, 
Enjoy  with  me  the  tuneful  hum 

Of  bees  that  swarm  throughout  the  glade. 
Upon  the  velvet  moss  reclining, 

And  with  thy  murmurings  in  mine  ear, 
What  thought  have  I  of  love's  repining? 

So  come,  sweet  Chloe,  rest  thee  here." 

"Nay,  Corydon;   I  fear,  alack! 

The  ants  would  clamber  up  my  back." 

"Ah,  Chloe,  here  amongst  the  flow'rs, 

While  linnets  coo  in  vines  above, 
How  sweet  to  dream  away  the  hours, 

Or  weave  fair  sonnets  to  my  love! 
A  zephyr,  coming  to  delight  me, 

Breathes  in  mine  ear  a  soothing  tone, 
And  tells  me  Chloe  shall  requite  me, 

And  so  I  smile  as  eke  I  prone." 

"Rise,  Corydon!     I  prithee  rise! 
You  're  proning  on  the  custard-pies." 
July  31,  1884. 


AN  ILLINOIS  WAR-SONG 

COME,  let  us  quaff  a  stirrup-cup 

To  Virtue  undismayed. 
Fill,  comrades,  fill  your  glasses  up 

With  sparkling  Lemonade! 

Here's  death  to  Whiskey,  Wine,  and  Beer, 

To  Brandy,  Gin,  and  Rum! 
We  have  a  million  voters  here — 

A  million  more  will  come. 


476  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

We  '11  pulverize  the  Liquor  pow'r, 
With  all  its  odious  jobs, 

Until  the  Demon  Drink  shall  cow'r 
Beneath  the  sword  of  Hobbs! 

The  sale  of  cocktail,  punch,  and  sling, 
We  are  resolved,  must  stop. 

As  substitute  therefor  we  bring 
The  fragrant  Ginger-pop; 

Or  else,  perchance,  refreshing  Mead, 

Or  Soda-water  cool: 
But  liquor  is  a  fiend  indeed 

We  don't  intend  shall  rule. 

Oh,  't  is  a  thief  that  steals  our  wits 
And  all  our  manhood  robs; 

So  we  propose  to  give  it  fits 
With  gallant  Brother  Hobbs! 

So  let  us  quaff  a  stirrup-cup 
Before  we  join  the  raid. 

Fill,  comrades,  fill  your  glasses  up 
With  sparkling  Lemonade! 

August  6,  1884. 


THOMAS  A.   HENDRICKS'S  APPEAL 

How  infamous  that  men  should  raise 

The  foul  and  bitter  lie 
That  in  the  old  secession  days, 

When  din  of  war  was  high, 
I  dealt  in  traitorous  sneer  and  brag 

And  did  not  dare  to  go 
To  battle  for  my  country's  flag 

Against  the  rebel  foe! 


THOMAS   A.    HENDRICKS'S   APPEAL  477 

Who  was  it  for  the  Stripes  and  Stars 

Risked  fortune,  fame,  and  life? 
Who  bore  away  the  purple  scars 

Of  many  a  bloody  strife  ? 
Who  was  it  led  the  patriot  band 

And  held  the  flag  on  high? 
Ay,  tell  me  truly,  if  you  can 

Who  was  it,  if  not  I? 

At  Vicksburg,  braving  sword  and  shell, 

I  gloried  in  the  fray 
Till  finally  I  fainting  fell 

With  one  leg  shot  away; 
But  on  to  Corinth's  ghastly  field 

I  hastened  to  imbrue, 
And  did  not  hesitate  to  yield 

A  paltry  arm  or  two! 

And  when  with  Sherman  to  the  sea 

Our  gallant  army  cross'd, 
The  rebel  bullets  followed  me — 

Another  leg  I  lost; 
But  still  I  gladly  drained  the  cup 

Of  deep  misfortune's  harm, 
And  down  at  Gettysburg  gave  up 

Another  leg  and  arm! 

So,  gallant  boys  who  wore  the  blue 

Through  all  that  dismal  tide, 
By  all  those  bloody  days  we  knew 

When  battling  side  by  side, 
Choke  off  the  hideous  lying  throats 

These  slanders  issue  from — 
And  next  November  cast  your  vote 

For  patriotic  Tom! 
August  8,  1884. 


478  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 


THE  EXPLORER'S  WOOING 

OH,  come  with  me  to  the  arctic  seas 

Where  the  blizzards  and  icebergs  grow, 
And  dally  awhile  with  the  polar  breeze 

In  the  land  of  the  Esquimau. 
We  will  fish  for  seal  and  the  great  white  bears 

In  their  caves  on  the  frozen  shores; 
We  will  spread  our  nets  in  the  frigid  lairs 

Of  the  walrus  that  snorts  and  roars. 

When  the  rest  of  creation  swoons  with  heat 

All  pleasant  and  chipper  we  '11  be; 
'T  would  be  hard  to  find  a  summer  retreat 

As  cool  as  the  arctic  sea. 
We  will  ramble  along  in  some  snowy  glade 

With  never  a  sultry  sigh, 
Or  loll  at  ease  in  the  grateful  shade 

Of  an  iceberg  four  miles  high. 

So  come  with  me  to  the  arctic  pole — 

To  the  land  of  the  walrus  and  bear, 
Where  the  glaciers  wave  and  the  blizzards  roll, 

And  victuals  are  frequently  rare. 
You  are  plump  and  fat — with  such  a  mate 

In  my  iceberg  I  would  dwell, 
In  the  pleasing  hope  I  could  baffle  fate 

By  eating  you  au  naturel. 
September  3,  1884. 


THE  AHKOOND  OF  SWAT 

WHEN  the  writer  has  written  with  all  of  his  might 
Of  Elaine  and  of  Cleveland  a  column  or  more, 

And  the  editor  happens  along  in  the  night 

(As  he  generally  does  betwixt  midnight  and  four) 


A    PLEA   FOR   THE    CLASSICS  479 

And  kills  all  the  stuff  that  that  writer  has  writ, 
And  calls  for  more  copy  at  once,  on  the  spot — 

There  is  none  for  the  writer  to  turn  on  and  hit 
But  that  distant  old  party,  the  Ahkoond  of  Swat. 

Now  the  Ahkoond  of  Swat  is  a  vague  sort  of  man 

Who  lives  in  a  country  far  over  the  sea; 
Pray  tell  me,  good  reader,  if  tell  me  you  can, 

What 's  the  Ahkoond  of  Swat  to  you  folks  or  to  me  ? 
Yet  when  one  must  be  careful,  conservative,  too, 

Since  the  canvass  is  getting  unpleasantly  hot, 
If  we  must  abuse  some — let  us  haste  to  imbrue 

With  that  foreign  old  bloomer,  the  Ahkoond  of  Swat! 

Yet  why  should  we  poke  this  insipid  old  king, 

Who  lives  in  the  land  of  the  tiger  and  cane, 
Since  the  talk  we  might  make  on  the  dotard  can't  bring 

The  sweet  satisfaction  of  a  Cleveland  or  Elaine  ? 
A  plague  on  these  politics,  statesmen,  and  all 

Who  conspire  to  embarrass  the  editor's  lot; 
And  a  plague  on  the  man,  we  implore,  who  will  call 

On  a  fellow  ^o  write  of  the  Ahkoond  of  Swat! 

But  vain  is  this  fuming,  this  frenzy,  this  storm — 

The  printers  care  naught  for  this  protest  or  that; 
A  long,  dreadful  hollow  appears  in  the  "form"- 

And  it 's  copy  they  want,  with  a  preference  for  "fat." 
So  here  's  to  our  friend  who  's  so  handy  in  need, 

Whose  useful  acquaintance  too  soon  is  forgot — 
That  distant  old  party  and  senile  old  seed, 

The  loathsome  and  pestilent  Ahkoond  of  Swat! 
September  19,  1884. 


A  PLEA  FOR  THE  CLASSICS 

A  BOSTON  gentleman  declares, 
By  all  the  gods  above,  below, 

That  our  degenerate  sons  and  heirs 
Must  let  their  Greek  and  Latin  go! 


480  SHARPS    AND    FLATS 

Forbid,  O  Fate,  we  loud  implore, 
A  dispensation  harsh  as  that; 

What!   wipe  away  the  sweets  of  yore; 
The  dear  "Amo,  amas,  amat"? 

The  sweetest  hour  the  student  knows 

Is  not  when  poring  over  French, 
Or  twisted  in  Teutonic  throes, 

Upon  a  hard  collegiate  bench; 
'T  is  when  on  roots  and  kais  and  gars 

He  feeds  his  soul  and  feels  it  glow, 
Or  when  his  mind  transcends  the  stars 

With  "Zoa  mou,  sas  agapo"! 

So  give  our  bright,  ambitious  boys 

An  inkling  of  these  pleasures,  too — 
A  little  smattering  of  the  joys 

Their  dead  and  buried  fathers  knew; 
And  let  them  sing — while  glorying  that 

Their  sires  so  sang,  long  years  ago — 
The  songs  "Amo,  amas,  amat," 

And  "Zoa  mou,  sas  agapo"! 
September  23,  1884. 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SPHINX 

UPON  the  hot  Egyptian  sands, 

Beneath  the  lurid,  blistering  skies, 
With  stolid  face  and  fireless  eyes 

The  Sphinx  in  sombre  grandeur  stands,, 

Within  that  doleful  desert  place, 
By  desolation's  doom  oppress'd, 
No  sweet  emotion  fills  her  breast — 

No  smile  illumes  the  Sphinx's  face. 

They  say  that  many  years  ago 
A  Roman  pretor  left  his  home, 
Resolved  to  go  from  Rome  to  roam — 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SPHINX  481 

A  Roman  roamin'  to  and  fro. 
This  pretor  happened,  so  they  say, 

To  meet  a  humorist,  whose  name 

Was  heralded  on  wings  of  fame 
Through  Boston  leagues  and  leagues  away. 

They  roamed  together  far  and  wide — 

The  pretor  and  the  Boston  wit — 

Till  finally  one  night  they  lit 
In  Egypt  by  the  Sphinx's  side. 
' 'Now  tell  me,  ere  we  go  to  bed 

Within  our  tents,  some  funny  tale; 

With  humorous  anecdote  regale 
My  jaded  soul,"  the  pretor  said. 

The  Sphinx  was  then  as  fair  a  bit 

Of  female  flesh  as  you  could  find, 

And,  womanlike,  she  had  a  mind 
For  stories  that  partook  of  wit. 
She,  therefore,  smiling  bent  her  ear 

To  hear  the  Massachusetts  joke 

The  famous  Boston  humorist  spoke 
Unto  the  pretor,  listening  near. 

What  was  the  joke  we  do  not  know — 

The  ancient  hist'ries  do  not  state, 

Nor  legendary  lore  relate, 
Nor  hieroglyphic  tablets  show; 
But  since  that  Boston  wit  beguiled 

The  Roman  pretor  with  the  joke 

Which  centuries  ago  was  spoke, 
The  hapless  Sphinx  has  never  smiled. 
September  23,  1884. 


182  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 


FANCHON  THE  CRICKET 

MY  grandsire,  years  and  years  ago, 
In  round  old  English  used  to  praise 
Sweet  Maggie  Mitchell's  pretty  ways 

And  her  fair  face  that  charmed  him  so. 

Her  tuneful  voice  and  curly  hair, 
Her  coquetry  and  subtle  art 
Ensnared  my  grandsire's  willing  heart 

And  ever  reigned  supremely  there. 

In  time  my  father. felt  the  force 

Of  cunning  Maggie  Mitchell's  smiles, 
And,  dazzled  by  her  thousand  wiles, 

He  sang  her  glories  too,  of  course. 

Quite  natural,  then,  it  was  that  I— 
Of  such  a  sire  and  grandsire,  too — 
When  this  dear  sprite  first  met  my  view 

Should  learn  to  rhapsodize  and  sigh. 

And  now  my  boy — of  tender  age — 

Indites  a  sonnet  to  the  curl 

Of  this  most  fascinating  girl 
That  ever  romped  the  mimic  stage! 

O  prototype  of  girlhood  truth, 

Of  girlhood  glee  and  girlhood  prank, 
By  what  good  fortune  hast  thou  drank 

The  waters  of  eternal  youth  ? 

September  26,  1884. 


NOVEMBER  483 


NOVEMBER 

THE  wold  is  drear  and  the  sedges  sere, 

And  gray  is  the  autumn  sky, 
And  sorrows  roll  through  my  riven  soul 

As  lonely  I  sit  and  sigh 
"Good-by" 

To  the  goose-birds  as  they  fly. 

With  his  weird  wishbone  to  the  temperate  zone 
Came  the  goose-bird  in  the  spring; 

And  he  built  his  nest  in  the  glorious  west, 
And  sat  on  a  snag  to  sing, 

Sweet  thing! 
Or  flap  his  beautiful  wing. 

But  the  boom  of  the  blast  has  come  at  last 

To  the  goose-bird  on  the  lea, 
And  the  succulent  thing,  with  shivering  wing, 

Flies  down  to  a  southern  sea. 
Ah  me, 

That  such  separation  should  be! 

But  it 's  always  so  in  this  world  of  woe: 

The  things  that  gladden  our  eye 
Are  the  surest  to  go  to  the  bugs,  and  so 

We  can  only  wearily  sigh 
"Good-by" 

To  the  goose-birds  as  they  fly. 
November  5,  1884. 


PARLEZ-VOUS  FRAN£AIS? 

THE  old  man  sits  inveiled  by  gloom, 

His  bosom  heaves  with  dire  dismay; 
For  in  that  editorial  room 


484  SHARPS   AND   FLATS 

There  booms  no  presidential  boom, 
And  folks  no  longer  come  that  way 
To  whisper,  "Parlez-vous  Fran9ais?" 

Gone  is  the  time  he  hoped  to  be 

A  diplomat  in  Paris  gay — 
When,  far  across  the  briny  sea, 
The  festive  gamins,  ires  jolis, 

And  fair  grisettes  decolletees 

Should  murmur,  "Parlez-vous  Fran9ais?J' 

So  let  the  poor  old  Joseph  rest 
And  let  him  pine  his  life  away; 

Nor  vex  that  journalistic  breath 

Which  by  a  hopeless  grief  's  distressed — 
The  hopeless  grief  he  never  may 
Respond  to  "Parlez-vous  Fra^ais?" 

November  10,  1884. 


"GEE  SWEE  ZAMERICANE" 

WHY  should  I  pine  and  languish  so? 

Why  should  I  droop  and  sigh? 
Why  should  my  soul  be  bowed  in  woe, 

As  weary  days  go  by  ? 
Why  should  I  drown  in  sorrow's  sea, 

When,  through  the  surf  of  pain, 
This  sweet  salvation  comes  to  me: 

"Gee  swee  Zamericane!" 

I  thought  diplomacy  my  forte, 

And  yearned  for  deeds  of  state 
Amid  the  solemn  pomps  of  court 

In  monarchies  effete; 
And  most  I  hankered  to  abide 

Hard  by  the  river  Seine, 
Where  I  could  say,  with  swelling  pride, 

"Gee  swee  Zamericane!" 


CHRISTMAS  485 

And  this  is  why  I  made  the  flop 

Which  Reid  and  Halstead  made, 
And  this  is  why  I  took  a  drop 

On  matters  of  free  trade; 
I  ate  my  words  of  '76, 

And  boomed  the  "rascal"  Elaine, 
And  played  a  thousand  Jingo  tricks — 

"Gee  swee  Zamericane!" 

The  die  is  cast,  the  boom  is  o'er, 

And  Blaine  is  beaten  bad — 
The  which  is  why  I  'm  feeling  sore, 

And,  likewise,  very  mad; 
For,  after  all  this  harrowing  strife, 

I  'm  likely  to  remain 
What  I  have  been  through  all  my  life — 

"Gee  swee  Zamericane!" 
November  11,  1884. 


CHRISTMAS 

MY  little  child  comes  to  my  knee 

And  tugging  pleads  that  he  may  climb 
Into  my  lap  to  hear  me  tell 
The  Christmas  tale  he  loves  so  well — 
A  tale  my  mother  told  to  me, 
Beginning  "Once  upon  a  time." 

It  is  a  tale  of  skies  that  rang 
With  angel  rhapsodies  sublime; 

Of  that  great  host,  serene  and  white, 
The  shepherds  saw  one  winter  night; 
And  of  the  glorious  stars  that  sang 
An  anthem,  once  upon  a  time. 


486  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

This  story  of  the  hallowed  years 
Tells  of  the  sacrifice  sublime 

Of  One  who  prayed  alone  and  wept 
While  his  awearied  followers  slept — 
And  how  his  blood  and  Mary's  tears 
Commingled,  once  upon  a  time. 

And  now  my  darling  at  my  side 
And  echoes  of  the  distant  clime 

Bring  that  sweet  story  back  to  me — • 
Of  Bethlehem  and  Calvary, 
And  of  the  gentle  Christ  that  died 
For  sinners,  once  upon  a  time. 

The  mighty  deeds  that  men  have  told 
In  ponderous  tomes  or  fluent  rhyme, 
Like  misty  shadows  fade  away; 
But  this  sweet  story  bides  for  aye, 
And,  like  the  stars  that  sang  of  old, 
We  sing  of  ''Once  upon  a  time." 
December  1,  1884. 


CHICAGO  WEATHER 

TO-DAY,  fair  Thisbe,  winsome  girl! 

Strays  o'er  the  meads  where  daisies  blow, 
Or,  ling' ring  where  the  brooklets  purl, 

Laves  in  the  cool,  refreshing  flow. 

To-morrow,  Thisbe,  with  a  host 
Of  amorous  suitors  in  her  train, 

Comes  like  a  goddess  forth  to  coast 
Or  skate  upon  the  frozen  main. 

To-day,  sweet  posies  mark  her  track, 
While  birds  sing  gayly  in  the  trees; 

To-morrow  morn,  her  sealskin  sack 
Defies  the  piping  polar  breeze. 


THE  COLLECTOR'S  DISCONTENT  487 

So  Doris  is  to-day  enthused 

By  Thisbe's  soft,  responsive  sighs, 
And  on  the  morrow  is  confused 

By  Thisbe's  cold,  repellent  eyes. 
December  6,  1884. 


THE  COLLECTOR'S  DISCONTENT 

A  DIBDIN  properly  displayed, 
An  Elzevir  ensconced  on  high, 

My  hand  upon  an  Aldus  laid — 
I  felt  a  tear  fall  from  my  eye. 

The  cause?     And  is  there  none  who  knows 
The  pangs  ambition  idly  wields? 

Is  there  a  man  that  to  the  throes 
Of  covetousness  never  yields  ? 

Perhaps  some  day  some  graven  urn 
Or  parchment  old  may  bring  to  view 

The  name  of  him  that  did  not  yearn 

For  the  books  that  dear  old  Burton  knew. 
I  don't  believe  it,  though — do  you  ? 

January  30,  1889. 


A  LEAP-YEAR  LAMENT 

THE  golden  year  is  nearly  sped — 

This  year  of  girlish  wooing; 
And  lo,  my  hope  of  love  is  dead, 

And  fate  is  past  undoing! 
When  suitors  came  in  gentle  spring 

And  proffered  their  caresses, 
Like  some  coquettish,  giddy  thing, 

I  spurned  their  fond  addresses. 


488  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

So  Minnie,  Maggie,  Maud,  and  Belle, 

Miranda,  Jane,  and  Jessie, 
Maria,  Nannie,  Ruth,  and  Nell, 

And  charming  blue-eyed  Bessie 
Went  wooing  other  kindlier  men 

Too  numerous  to  mention; 
And  I,  by  this  hegira,  then 

Was  left  without  attention. 

But  in  the  sere  of  autumn  came 

That  sweetest  maid  of  many, 
With  wit  and  beauty  known  to  fame — 

The  blithe  and  winsome  Jennie; 
And  having  wooed  as  women  can, 

Protesting  she  adored  me, 
She  wed  her  father's  hired  man; 

And  that  completely  floored  me! 

0  silly  celibate,  that  spurned 
The  leap-year  wooing  vernal, 

How  hast  thy  haughty  scorning  turned 
To  self-reproach  eternal! 

1  'd  give  my  wealth,  my  life,  my  fame, 

If  I  could  summon  to  me 
In  this  bleak  hour  those  nymphs  that  came 

In  early  spring  to  woo  me! 
December  17,  1884. 


ILL  REQUITED 

OH,  hand  me  down  my  spectacles, 
Oh,  hand  them  down  to  me, 

That  I  may  read  and  know,  indeed, 
If  our  good  Grover  C. 

Hath  bid  me  stand  at  his  right  hand, 
Where  I  have  longed  to  be. 


GRANT  489 


Oh,  hand  me  down  my  microscope; 

These  specs  ill  serveth  me: 
But  I  have  hope  the  microscope 

Will  give  me  pow'r  to  see 
My  noble  name  where  lasting  fame 

Intended  it  should  be. 

Alas!   nor  specs  nor  microscope 

Nor  aught  availeth  me. 
My  name  is  missed  from  all  the  list 

Where  it  should  surely  be. 
And  if,  ere  long,  affairs  go  wrong, 

The  blame  's  with  Grover  C. 
March  5,  1885. 


GRANT 

His  was  the  sword  that  from  its  scabbard  leapt 
To  cleave  the  way  where  freedom  could  be  won, 

And  where  it  led  a  conquering  army  swept 
Till  all  was  done. 

Then  that  same  valorous  hand  which  swung  the  sword 
Back  to  its  sheath  returned  the  patriot  blade, 

And  bore  sweet  peace  where  crushed  rebellion's  horde 
Stood  all  dismayed. 

And  now  a  spirit,  speeding  from  above, 

Chills  that  great  heart  with  his  destroying  breath, 

And  all  a  people's  reverence  and  love 
Are  mocked  by  death. 

April  1,  1885. 


490  SHARPS    AND    FLATS 


FROM  THE  SAME  CANTEEN 

FROM  hill  and  plain  to  the  State  of  Maine 

The  veterans  toiled  along, 
And  they  rent  the  air  with  the  tuneful  blare 

Of  trumpets  and  of  song; 
That  their  throats  were  dry  there  will  none  deny, 

But  little  they  recked,  I  ween, 
As  they  gathered  round  on  the  old  camp-ground 

To  drink  from  the  same  canteen. 

The  tales  of  old  were  again  retold, 

And  they  sang  of  the  war  once  more — 
Till  the  word  went  round  like  a  thunder  sound, 

"Let  us  drink  to  the  days  of  yore!" 
A  rapturous  glee  that  was  fair  to  see 

Enveloped  the  martial  scene — 
But  there  came  a  change  that  was  pitiful  strange 

When  they  drank  from  the  old  canteen. 

The  veteran  throng  sings  now  no  song 

That  is  keyed  in  the  grand  old  strain, 
And  the  air  is  blue  with  the  hullabaloo 

Of  the  soldiers  who  marched  to  Maine. 
Not  even  beer  is  the  proffered  cheer, 

Nor  a  jug  nor  a  flask  is  seen; 
But  it 's  lemonade  of  a  watery  grade 

That  they  drink  from  the  same  canteen! 

June  26,  1885. 


LITTLE  MISS  DANDY 

THE  other  night  as  in  my  bed 

I  lay  profoundly  sleeping, 
An  angel  babe  with  hairless  head 

Came  through  the  darkness  creeping; 


SPIRIT    LAKE  49] 

And,  waking  at  the  dawn  of  day, 

Bliss  percolated  through  me 
When,  smiling  in  her  artless  way, 

She  murmured  ''papa"  to  me. 

Strange,  was  it  not  ?     But  stranger  still 

What  next  claimed  my  attention — 
The  robes  of  wealth  with  tuck  and  frill 

Too  numerous  to  mention. 
Whence  came  these  bibs  with  lace  bedecked — 

These  flannels  all  so  handy? 
And  who  could  possibly  suspect 

The  coming  of  Miss  Dandy? 

Well,  she  shall  live  a  thousand  years, 

Unmindful  of  each  morrow; 
Her  eyes  shall  know  no  plash  of  tears, 

Her  heart  no  touch  of  sorrow; 
And  she  shall  dress  in  silk  and  lace 

And  feed  on  taffy  candy — 
God  bless  her  fuzzy  little  face, 

My  little  angel  dandy! 
August  11,  1885. 


SPIRIT  LAKE 

UPON  this  beautiful  expanse 

Of  purple  waves  and  spray 
The  wanton  prairie  zephyrs  dance 

With  sunbeams  all  the  day. 
And  ships  go  sailing  to  and  fro; 

The  sea-gulls  circle  round; 
Above  the  plash  of  ebb  and  flow 

The  children's  voices  sound. 

See  how  the  playful  pickerel  speeds 

Upon  his  devious  way 
Among  the  lissome,  clinging  wreeds, 

In  hot  pursuit  of  prey; 


492  SHARPS    AND    FLATS 

And  here  or  there  the  greedy  bass 

In  their  erratic  flight 
Like  dark  electric  shadows  pass 

Before  our  wondering  sight. 

Oh,  what  a  wealth  of  life  is  here — 

What  pike  and  carp  abound! 
Within  these  waters,  cool  and  clear, 

What  game  may  not  be  found! 
You  only  have  to  bait  your  hook 

And  cast  it  in  the  spray; 
Down — fathoms  down — it  sinks;   and  look! 

You  've  caught  your  finny  prey. 

O  beauteous  lake  with  pebbly  shore 

And  skies  of  azure  hue, 
With  gulls  and  zephyrs  skimming  o'er 

Thy  waves  of  restless  blue, 
To  thee  I  dedicate  this  hymn 

In  melancholic  spite- 
To  thee,  where  bass  and  pickerel  swim, 

But  only  bullheads  bite. 


TO  DENMAN  THOMPSON 

THERE  's  somethin'  in  your  homely  ways, 

Your  simple  speech,  and  honest  face 
That  takes  us  back  to  other  days 

And  to  a  distant,  cherished  place. 
We  seem  to  see  the  dear  old  hills, 

The  clover-patch,  the  pickerel  pond, 
And  we  can  hear  the  mountain  rills 

A-singin'  in  the  haze  beyond. 

There  is  the  lane  wherein  we  played, 
An'  there  the  hillside,  rough  an'  gray, 

O'er  which  we  little  Yankees  strayed 
A-eheckerberryin'  ev'ry  day; 


' '  PURITAN  ' ' — ' '  GENEST A ' '  493 

The  big  red  barn,  the  old  stone  wall, 
The  pippin-tree,  the  fav'rite  beach — 

We  seem  to  recognize  'em  all 

In  thy  quaint  face  an'  honest  speech! 


An'  somehow  when  we  see  'em  rise 

Like  spectres  of  those  distant  years, 
We  kinder  weaken,  and  our  eyes 

See  dimly  through  a  mist  o'  tears; 
For  there  's  no  thing  will  touch  the  heart 

Like  mem'ry's  subtle  wand,  I  trow, 
An'  there  's  no  tear  that  will  not  start 

At  thought  of  home  an'  long  ago. 

You  make  us  boys  an'  girls  again, 

An'  like  a  tender,  sweet  surprise, 
Come  thoughts  of  those  dear  moments  when 

Our  greatest  joy  was  mother's  pies! 
I  'd  ruther  have  your  happy  knack 

Than  all  the  arts  which  critics  praise — 
The  knack  o'  takin'  old  folks  back 

To  childhood  homes  and  childhood  days. 
September  2,  1885. 


"PURITAN  "— "  GENESTA  " 

A  CENTURY  or  so  ago, 

When  we  was  young  an'  skittish, 
We  started  out  to  let  folks  know 

That  we  could  tan  the  British; 
From  Bunker  Hill  ter  Southern  sile, 

And  on  the  ragin'  water, 
We  warmed  'em  in  sich  hearty  style, 

They  quickly  begged  fur  quarter. 


494  SHARPS    AND    FLATS 

Waal,  ever  sence  them  early  days 

When  we  was  young  an'  skittish, 
We  Yanks  hev  been  disposed  to  raise 

Ther  devil  with  ther  British; 
Thar  's  nary  game  they  kin  suggest 

But  thet  we  Yankees  larn  'em 
That  we  are  cuter  than  the  best 

Of  all  their  lords — goll  darn  'em! 

With  our  Kintucky  colts  we  've  beat 

Their  stables  highfalutin; 
Their  sportin'  men  hev  met  defeat 

At  cricket  and  at  shootin'; 
Our  pugilists,  with  skill  an'  ease, 

Hev  stopped  all  furrin  blowin'; 
Our  oarsmen  on  the  lakes  an'  seas 

Hev  beat  'em  all  a-rowin'! 

An'  now,  ter  save  that  silver  cup 

From  England's  proud  "Genesta," 
The  Yankee  folks  have  kunjured  up 

A  skimmin'  dish  ter  best  'er. 
Thar  ain't  no  ship  thet  swims  the  sea 

Or  sails  the  briny  ocean — 
No  matter  what  her  flag  may  be — 

Kin  beat  a  Yankee  notion! 

But  what  o'  thet  ?     It 's  all  in  fun, 

And  thar  won't  be  no  squealin'; 
Fur  Yank  an'  Britisher  is  one 

In  language,  blud,  an'  feelin'! 
An'  though  the  times  we've  played  'em  smart 

Are  numbered  by  the  dozens, 
The  Yankee  feels,  down  in  his  heart, 

"God  bless  our  British  cousins!" 
September  15,  1885. 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   MUGWUMP  495 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  MUGWUMP 

THE  Mugwump  sat  on  a  hickory  limb, 

"Too-hoo!" 
In  the  autumn  twilight,  dank  and  dim, 

"Too-hool" 

When,  coming  along,  a  Democrat  heard 
The  doleful  voice  of  the  curious  bird 
Sadly  moaning  this  wild,  weird  word, 
"Too-hool" 

"Oh,  why  do  you  sit  on  that  limb  and  cry 

'Too-hoo?' 
Does  it  mean  a  lingering,  last  good-by — 

Adieu? 

You  've  been  our  guest  a  paltry  year, 
And  now  you  are  going  to  disappear 
With  a  parting  flip-flop,  sad  and  sear — 

Boo-hoo!" 

But  the  Mugwump  scorned  the  Democrat's  wail, 

"Too-hoo!" 
And  flirting  its  false,  fantastic  tail, 

"Too-hoo!" 

It  spread  its  wings  and  it  soared  away, 
And  left  the  Democrat  in  dismay, 
With  no  pitch  hot  and  the  devil  to  pay — 

"Too-hoo!" 
October  6,  1885. 


SONG  FOR  THE   DEPARTED 

OH,  what  has  become  of  the  Mugwump-bird 
In  this  weather  of  wind  and  snow, 

And  does  he  roost  as  high  as  we  heard 
He  roosted  a  year  ago  ? 


496  SHARPS   AND   FLATS 

A  year  ago  and  his  plumes  were  red 
As  the  deepest  of  cardinal  hues, 

But  in  the  year  they  've  changed,  't  is  said, 
To  the  bluest  of  bilious  blues! 

A  year  ago  and  this  beautiful  thing 

Warbled  in  careless  glee; 
But  now  the  tune  he  is  forced  to  sing 

Is  pitched  in  a  minor  key. 

It 's  oh,  we  sigh,  for  the  times  gone  by 
When  the  Mugwump  lived  to  laugh — 

When,  coy  and  shy,  he  roosted  high, 
And  could  n't  be  caught  with  chaff. 

And  it 's  oh,  we  say,  for  the  good  old  day 
Which  never  again  may  come — 

When  the  Mugwump  threaded  his  devious  way 
And  whistled  his  lumpty-tum! 

November  5,  1885. 


A  SONG  OF  THE  CHRISTMAS  WIND 

As  on  my  roving  way  I  go 

Beneath  the  starlight's  gleaming, 
Upon  a  bank  of  feathery  snow 

I  find  a  moonbeam  dreaming; 
I  crouch  beside  the  pretty  miss 

And  cautiously  I  give  her 
My  gentlest,  tend'rest  little  kiss, 
And  frown  to  see  her  shiver. 
Oho!   Oho! 
On  bed  of  snow 

Beneath  the  starlight's  gleaming, 
I  steal  the  bliss 
Of  one  sweet  kiss 
From  that  fair  friend  a-dreaming. 


AN   OVERWOKKED   WORD  497 

I  scamper  up  the  gloomy  street 

With  wild,  hilarious  shrieking, 
And  each  rheumatic  sign  I  meet 

I  set  forthwith  to  creaking; 
The  sooty  chimneys  wheeze  and  sigh 

In  dismal  apprehension, 
And  when  the  rich  man  passes  by 
I  pay  him  marked  attention. 
Oho!   Oho! 
With  gusts  of  snow 
I  love  to  pelt  and  blind  him; 
But  I  kiss  the  curls 
Of  the  beggar-girls 
Who  crouch  in  the  dark  behind  him. 


In  summer-time  a  posy  fair 

Bloomed  on  the  distant  heather, 
And  every  day  we  prattled  there 
And  sang  our  songs  together; 
And  thither,  as  we  sang  or  told 

Of  love's  unchanging  glory, 
A  maiden  and  her  lover  strolled, 
Repeating  our  sweet  story. 
"Oho!   Oho!" 
We  murmur  low — 
The  maid  and  I,  together; 

For  summer  's  sped 
And  love  is  dead 
Upon  the  distant  heather. 

December  26,  1885. 


AN  OVERWORKED  WORD 

WE  wake  up  and  make  up, 
We  rake  up,  we  fake  up, 
And  use  the  word  "up"  when  we  can. 


498  SHARPS   AND   FLATS 

We  drink  up  and  think  up, 
We  kink  up  and  shrink  up, 
And  do  up  a  shirt  or  a  man. 

We  slack  up  or  back  up, 
We  stack  up  and  whack  up, 

And  hold  up  a  man  or  an  ace; 
We  beer  up  and  cheer  up, 
We  steer  up  and  clear  up, 

And  work  up  ourselves  or  a  case. 

We  walk  up  and  talk  up, 
We  stalk  up  and  chalk  up, 

And  everywhere  "up"  's  to  be  heard; 
We  wet  up  and  set  up, 
But  hanged  if  we  let  up 

On  "up,"  the  much  overworked  word, 

March  6,  1886. 


A  WESTERN  BOY'S  LAMENT 

I  WISH  'T  I  lived  away  down  East,  where  codfish  salt  the  sea, 
And  where  the  folks  have  pumpkin  pie  and  apple-sass  for  tea. 
Us  boys  who  's  livin'  here  out  West  don't  get  more  'n  half  a  show; 
We  don't  have  nothin'  else  to  do  but  jest  to  sort  of  grow. 

Oh,  if  I  was  a  bird  I  'd  fly  a  million  miles  away 

To  where  they  feed  their  boys  on  pork  and  beans  three  times  a 

day; 

To  where  the  place  they  call  the  Hub  gives  out  its  shiny  spokes, 
And  where  the  folks — so  father  says — is  mostly  women-folks. 
Marnh  26,  1886. 


HUMANITY  499 


HUMANITY 

THE  big-eyed  baby,  just  across  the  way, 

Longs  for  the  moon  and  reaches  out  to  clasp  it; 

He  lunges  at  the  crescent  cold  and  gray, 
And  waxes  wroth  to  find  he  cannot  grasp  it. 

Be  hushed,  O  babe,  and  give  thy  grief  a  rest; 

Better  a  thousand  times  for  thee  to  ponder 
Upon  the  lacteal  wealth  of  mother's  breast 

Than  reach  for  that  vain  Milky  Way  up  yonder. 

Yet  am  I  like  this  man  of  recent  birth 
That  lets  a  foolish  disappointment  fret  it; 

Scorning  the  sky,  I  'in  reaching  for  the  earth, 
And  grunt  and  groan  because  I  do  not  get  it. 

April  12,  1886. 


THE  WHITE  HOUSE  BALLADS 

KING   GROVER   CRAVES   PIE 

KING  GROVER  at  his  table  round 

Sate  feasting  once,  and  there  was  sound 

Of  good  things  said  and  sly; 
When  presently  King  Grover  spake: 
"A  murrain  seize  this  futile  cake — 

Come,  Daniel,  pass  the  pie!" 

Then  quoth  Sir  Daniel,  flaming  hot: 
"Pie  hath  not  been  in  Camelot 

Since  Arthur  was  our  King; 
Soothly,  I  ween,  't  were  vain  to  make 
Demand  for  pie  where  there  is  cake, 

For  pie  's  a  ribald  thing!" 


500  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

"Despite  King  Arthur's  rash  decree, 
Which  ill  beseemeth  mine  and  me," 

King  Grover  answered  flat, 
"I  will  have  pie  three  times  a  day — 
Let  dotards  cavil  as  they  may — 

And  pumpkin  pie  at  that!" 

Then,  frowning  a  prodigious  frown, 
Sir  Daniel  pulled  his  visor  down, 

And,  with  a  mighty  sigh, 
Out  strode  he  to  the  kitchen,  where 
He  bade  the  varlet  slaves  prepare 

Three  times  each  day  a  pie. 

Thenceforth  King  Grover  was  content, 
And  all  his  reign  in  peace  was  spent; 

And  when  't  was  questioned  why 
He  waxed  so  hale,  and  why,  the  while, 
The  whole  domain  was  free  from  guile, 

He  simply  answered,  "Pie." 
April  21,  1886 


SISTER  ROSE'S  SUSPICIONS 

"WHAT  of  these  tidings,  Grover  dear, 
That  are  reported  far  and  near 

Upon  suspicion's  breath? 
And  is  it  true,  as  eke  't  is  said, 
That  you  have  made  your  mind  to  wed  ? " 

Quoth  Rose  Elizabeth. 

With  that  his  conscience  smote  him  sore — 
He  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  floor, 

But  not  a  word  he  saith. 
Then  did  she  guess  his  secret  flame; 
In  sooth  she  was  a  crafty  dame, 

Was  Rose  Elizabeth. 


THE    WHITE    HOUSE    BALLADS  501 

She  flaunted  out  into  the  hall 

In  grievous  wrath  and  tears  withal, 

Did  Rose  Elizabeth; 
And  when  he  saw  her  grewsome  rage 
That  no  entreaties  could  assuage, 

He  fiercely  muttered,  "  'S  death!" 
April  24,  1886. 


THE   WEDDING-DAY 

OH,  hand  me  down  my  spike-tail  coat 

And  reef  my  waistband  in, 
And  tie  this  necktie  round  my  throat 

And  fix  my  bosom-pin; 
I  feel  so  weak  and  flustered  like, 

I  don't  know  what  to  say — 
For  I  'm  to  be  wedded  to-day,  Dan'l, 

I  'm  to  be  wedded  to-day ! 

Put  double  sentries  at  the  doors 

And  pull  the  curtains  down, 
And  tell  the  Democratic  bores 

That  I  am  out  of  town: 
It 's  funny  folks  hain't  decency 

Enough  to  stay  away 
When  I  'm  to  be  wedded  to-day,  Dan'l, 

I  'm  to  be  wedded  to-day ! 

The  bride,  you  say,  is  calm  and  cool 

In  satin  robes  of  white. 
Well,  I  am  stolid,  as  a  rule, 

But  now  I  'm  flustered  quite; 
Upon  a  surging  sea  of  bliss 

My  soul  is  borne  away, 
For  I  'm  to  be  wedded  to-day,  Dan'l, 

I  'm  to  be  wedded  to-day ! 
May  2,  1886. 


502  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 


THE   TYING   OF   THE   TIE 

Now  was  Sir  Grover  passing  wroth. 
"A  murrain  seize  the  man,"  he  quoth, 

"Who  first  invented  ties! 
Egad,  they  are  a  grievous  bore, 
And  tying  of  them  vexeth  sore 

A  person  of  my  size!" 

Lo,  at  his  feet  upon  the  floor 

Were  sprent  the  neckties  by  the  score, 

And  collars  all  a-wreck; 
And  good  Sir  Grover's  cheeks  were  flame, 
And  good  Sir  Grover's  arms  were  lame 

With  wrestling  at  his  neck. 

But  much  it  joyed  him  when  he  heard 
Sir  Daniel  say:     "I  fain  will  gird 

Your  necktie  on  for  you, 
As  't  will  not  cause  you  constant  fear 
Of  bobbing  round  beneath  your  ear 

Or  setting  you  askew." 

Sir  Daniel  grasped  one  paltry  tie 
And,  with  a  calm,  heroic  eye 

And  confidential  air 

(As  who  should  say,  "Odds  bobs,  I  vow 
There  's  nothing  like  the  knowing  how"), 

He  mounted  on  a  chair. 

And  whilst  Sir  Grover  raised  his  chin 
(For  much  he  did  respect  the  pin) 

Sir  Daniel  tied  the  tie, 
The  which  when  good  Sir  Grover  viewed— 
Albeit  it  belike  a  dude — 

He  heaved  a  grateful  sigh. 
May  3,  1886. 


THE    WHITE    HOUSE    BALLADS  503 


THE   KISSING   OF   THE   BRIDE 

AND  when  at  last,  with  priestly  pray'r 
And  music  mingling  in  the  air, 

The  nuptial  knot  was  tied, 
Sir  Grover,  flaming  crimson  red, 
"Soothly,  it  is  my  mind,"  he  said, 

"That  I  salute  the  bride!" 

Whereat  upon  her  virgin  cheek, 

So  smooth,  so  plump,  and  comely  eke, 

He  did  implant  a  smack 
So  lusty  that  the  walls  around 
Gave  such  an  echo  to  the  sound 

As  they  had  like  to  crack. 

No  modern  salutation  this, 

No  mincing,  maudlin  Mugwump  kiss, 

To  chill  a  bride's  felicity; 
Exploding  on  her  blushing  cheek, 
Its  virile  clamor  did  bespeak 

Arcadian  simplicity. 
May  3,  1886. 


THE   CUTTING   OF   THE   CAKE 

SIR  GROVER  quoth:     "Let  each  one  here 
Of  soups  and  wine  and  sumptuous  cheer 

Most  heartily  partake; 
And  whilst  you  are  thus  well  employed, 
I  ween  my  consort  will  be  joyed 

To  cut  the  bridal  cake!" 

Then  saith  the  bride,  as  courtesying  low: 
"There  is  no  sweeter  task,  I  trow, 

Than  which  is  now  my  life, 
To  do  thy  will,  my  liege;   so  I 
Would  fain  with  thy  request  comply 

If  I  but  had  a  knife." 


504  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

Thereat  of  shining  blades  a  score 
Leaped  from  their  knightly  sheaths  before 

You  could  have  counted  two; 
As  each  brave  knight  right  humbly  prayed 
The  lady  to  accept  his  blade 

Wherewith  her  will  to  do. 

But  Lady  Frances  shook  her  head 
And  with  sweet  dignity  she  said: 

"None  other's  blade  I  '11  take 
Save  his  who  hath  my  rev'rence  won — 
My  pole-star  and  my  central  sun — 

And  his  shall  cut  the  cake!" 

Then  did  Sir  Grover  bend  him  to 
His  trousers  pockets,  whence  he  drew 

A  jack-knife,  big  and  fat, 
The  which  he  gave  into  her  hand, 
Whereat  the  others  murmured,  and 

They  marvelled  much  thereat. 

But  when  the  cake  was  cut,  the  rest 
Made  proper  hurry  to  attest 

In  knightly  phrase  emphatic 
How  that  the  cake  was  passing  nice, 
And  how  the  blade  that  cleft  each  slice 

Was  truly  democratic. 
May  4,  1886. 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  COMPLIMENT 


EFTSOONS  the  priest  had  made  his  say, 
The  courtly  knights  and  ladies  gay 

Did  haste  from  every  side, 
With  honeyed  words  and  hackneyed  phrase 
And  dainty  smiles  withal,  to  praise 

Sir  Grover's  blushing  bride. 


THREE   DAYS   IN   SPRINGTIME  505 

Out  spake  the  courtly  Sir  Lamar: 
"Of  all  fair  brides,  you,  lady,  are 

The  fairest  I  have  seen; 
Not  only  of  this  castle  grand, 
But  of  all  hearts  throughout  the  land, 

Are  you  acknowledged  queen!" 

Whereat  the  Lady  Frances  bowed; 
And  rapturous  murmurs  in  the  crowd 

Did  presently  attest 
That  of  the  chestnuts  uttered  there 
This  chestnut  was  without  compare — 

Foredating  all  the  rest. 
May  4,  1886. 


THREE  DAYS  IN  SPRINGTIME 


ON  such  a  day  as  this  old  Netting  Wood 
Made  gentle  answer  from  her  secret  glades 
Unto  the  tumult  of  the  lusty  blades 

That  owned  no  liege  save  merry  Robin  Hood. 
Deep  in  the  haunts  of  velvet  doe  and  buck 
Lolled  gallant  Will  and  pursy  Friar  Tuck, 

Quaffing  brown  ale  but  last  October  brewed. 
Whilst  of  his  flame  the  amorous  Allen  troll'd, 

Upon  the  sward  beyond,  'mid  blithesome  shouts 
That  mocked  each  broken  pate,  the  yeomen  bold 

Plied  their  stout  quarter-staffs  in  bloody  bouts. 

Apart  from  all  the  rest,  good  Robin  lay, 

And  sorely  grieved  that,  lo,  for  many  a  day 

The  varlet  sheriff  had  not  rode  that  way. 

n 

On  such  a  day  as  this  the  Nazarene 

Came  from  his  lowly  fisher  home  and  stood 
Upon  the  shore  of  restless  Galilee; 


506  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

And  as  he  viewed  the  ever-changing  scene, 
He  heard  the  breezes  whisper  to  the  sea 
How  they  had  come  that  morning  from  a  wood, 

Where,  in  the  warmth  of  springtime,  all  was  green; 
How  they  had  lingered  there  in  furtive  mood; 
How  they  had  kissed  a  crucifixion  tree 

That  angels  guarded;   and  the  listening  One 
Bowed  down  His  head  in  sweet  humility. 

"Father,  Thy  will,"  He  cried,  "not  mine,  be  done." 

Then  sped  the  vernal  breezes,  fair  and  free, 
To  bear  the  tidings  back  to  Calvary. 
April  26,  1886. 


SAG  HARBOR 

THREE  authors  stood  upon  the  beach 

And  watched  the  fishing-smacks  heave  to; 
As  far  as  human  eye  could  reach, 

Swept  one  expanse  of  saline  blue. 
First  Hawthorne  spoke:     "While  ebbs  the  tide, 

Suppose  we  three  a-fishing  go?" 
"  'T  is  well,"  the  white-haired  Stoddard  cried. 

"Amen,"  quoth  Reverend  E.  P.  Roe 

'  'Neath  yonder  hedge,  where  burdocks  blow 

And  chirps  the  cricket  to  his  mate, 
Methinks  the  plethoric  gentles  grow; 

Come,  let  us  dig  a  few  for  bait." 
Thus  big,  strong  Julian  Hawthorne  said; 

But  with  a  smile  that  answered  "No," 
The  dear  old  Stoddard  shook  his  head; 

And  quoth  to  Reverend  E.  P.  Roe: 

"Although,  assuredly,  I  am 

Unlearn'd  in  piscatorial  lore, 
I  mind  me  that  the  modest  clam 

Beats  all  your  bait  that  grows  ashore; 


THE   5TH    OF   JULY  507 

Still  care  I  not,  and  you,  friend  Roe, 
Shall  name  the  bait  and  fix  the  terms; 

So  now  decide  before  we  go — 

Shall  it  be  clams  or  angleworms?" 

"  'T  is  not  for  such  a  wretch  as  I 

To  say  what  shall  or  shall  not  be, 
For  He  who  heeds  the  raven's  cry 

Will  care,  in  His  good  time,  for  me. 
Whether  upon  the  ocean  tides 

Or  by  the  water-brooks  I  go, 
I  '11  take  the  bait  the  Lord  provides!" 

Remarked  the  Reverend  E.  P.  Roe. 
July  3,  1886. 


THE  5TH  OF  JULY 

THE  sun  climbs  up,  but  still  the  tyrant  Sleep 
Holds  fast  our  baby  boy  in  his  embrace; 
The  slumb'rer  sighs,  anon  athwart  his  face 

Faint,  half-suggested  frowns  like  shadows  creep. 

One  little  hand  lies  listless  on  his  breast, 

One  little  thumb  sticks  up  with  mute  appeal, 
While  motley  burns  and  powder-marks  reveal 

The  fruits  of  boyhood's  patriotic  zest. 

Our  baby's  faithful  poodle  crouches  near; 

He,  too,  is  weary  of  the  din  and  play 

That  come  with  glorious  Independence  Day, 
But  which,  thank  God!   come  only  once  a  year! 
And  Fido,  too,  has  suffered  in  this  cause, 

Which  once  a  year  right  noisily  obtains; 

For  Fido's  tail — or  what  thereof  remains — 
Is  not  so  fair  a  sight  as  once  it  was. 
July  7,  1886. 


508  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

A  POEM  IN  THREE  CANTOS 


FROM  the  land  of  logs  and  peaches 

Came  a  callow  jay-bird  dressed 
In  homespun  coat  and  breeches 

And  a  gaudy  velvet  vest; 
His  eyes  were  red  and  wistful, 

And  he  gawped  a  rural  stare, 
Yet,  withal,  he  had  a  fistful 

Of  the  stuff  that  speeds  the  mare. 

II 
9  to  4. 

in 

Confound  the  tarnal  tallies 

That  mulct  the  callow  jay! 
Confound  the  sharp  that  dallies 

With  Detroit's  wealth  to-day! 
Confound  the  fate  that  teaches 

The  jay  to  warble  low! 
But  bless  the  land  of  peaches 

Where  the  royal  suckers  grow! 

July  9,  1886. 


IN   PRAISE   OF   TRUTH   AND   SIMPLICITY   IN   SONG 

OH,  for  the  honest,  blithesome  times 

Of  bosky  Sherwood  long  ago, 
When  Allen  trolled  his  amorous  rhymes 

And  Robin  twanged  his  crafty  bow; 
When  Little  John  and  Friar  Tuck 

Traversed  the  greenwood  far  and  near, 
Feasting  on  many  a  royal  buck 

Washed  down  with  brown  October  beer! 


THE    FOOL  509 

Beside  their  purling  sylvan  rills, 

What  knew  these  yeomen  bold  and  free 
Of  envious  cares  and  grewsome  ills 

That  now,  sweet  friend,  vex  you  and  me? 
Theirs  but  to  roam  the  leafy  glade, 

Beshrewing  sheriffs,  lords,  and  priests, 
To  loll  supine  beneath  the  shade, 

Regaling  monarchs  with  their  feasts. 

The  murrain  seize  these  ribald  times 

When  there  is  such  a  lust  for  gold 
That  poets  fashion  all  their  rhymes, 

Like  varlet  tradesfolk,  to  be  sold! 
Not  so  did  Allen  when  he  troll'd 

His  ballads  in  that  merry  glade; 
Nay,  in  those  courteous  days  of  old 

The  minstrel  spurned  the  tricks  of  trade! 

So,  joyous  friend,  when  you  and  I 

Sing  to  the  world  our  chosen  theme, 
Let 's  do  as  do  the  birds  that  fly 

Careless  o'er  woodland,  wold,  and  stream: 
Sing  Nature's  song,  untouched  of  art — 

Sing  of  the  forest,  brook,  and  plain; 
And,  hearing  it,  each  human  heart 

Will  vibrate  with  the  sweet  refrain. 
August  16,  1886. 


THE  FOOL 

A  FOOL,  when  plagued  by  fleas  by  night, 

Quoth:    "Since  these  neighbors  so  despite  me, 

I  think  I  will  put  out  the  light 

And  then  they  cannot  see  to  bite  me!" 

November  26,  1886. 


510  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

TO  THE  LAD  YE   JULIA 

ON   HER  X   BIRTHDAY 

Belle  semper  eadem 

PUELLA   PULCHRA 

TIME,  by  Julia's  face  enchanted, 

Made  with  Love  a  bargain  rare; 
These  the  terms  that  Eros  granted 

In  the  interest  of  his  fair: 
When  old  Chronos,  in  his  yearly 

Round,  must  visit  beauty's  queen, 
Love  should  turn  the  glass,  while  idly 

Time  would  bask  beneath  her  een — 

Julia  being  then  sweet  'steen. 

UXOR  PULCHRIOR 

Cupid,  cunning  rogue,  delighted 
At  the  chance  to  cheat  his  foe, 

Bound  the  pact  with  kisses  plighted — 
This  was  several  years  ago. 

Of  the  scheme  no  doubt  that  you  '11  u- 
Nite  in  saying:     "Well  we  ween 

'Gainst  the  charms  of  Ladye  Julia 
Love  's  but  time  in  quarantine — 
Julia  '11  always  be  sweet  'steen!" 

MATRE  PULCHERRIMA 

Since,  in  all  the  white  Decembers, 

For  this  day  doth  Chronos  yearn; 
Love  sets  the  glass,  then  straight  remembers 

Back  the  dial's  hand  to  turn. 
So  old  Tempus,  edax  rerum, 

May  not  mar  the  peerless  sheen 
Of  her  beauty.     Dixi  verum. 

This  is  why  I  envy  ...  — 

Julia  's  always  lovely  'steen  I 

THE  DOCTORC 
December  14,  1886 


A   BALLAD    OF   ANCIENT   OATHS  511 


A  BALLAD  OF  ANCIENT  OATHS 

THER  ben  a  knyghte,  Sir  Hoten  hight, 

That  on  a  time  did  swere 
In  mighty  store  othes  mickle  sore, 

Which  grieved  his  wiffe  to  here. 

Soth,  whenne  she  scofft,  his  wiffe  did  oft 

Swere  as  a  ladye  may; 
'T  faith,"  "F  sooth,"  or  "lawk,"  in  truth, 

Ben  alle  that  wiffe  wold  say. 

Soe  whenne  her  goodman  waxed  him  wood 

She  mervailed  much  to  here 
The  hejeous  sound  of  othes  full  round 

The  which  her  lord  did  swere. 


"Now  pray  thee,  speke  and  tell  me  eke 
What  thing  hath  vexed  thee  soe?" 

The  wiffe  she  cried;   but  hee  replied 
By  swereing  moe  and  moe. 

He  sweren  zounds  which  be  Gog's  wounds, 

By  bright  Marie  and  Gis, 
By  sweit  Sanct  Ann  and  holle  Tan, 

And  by  Bryde's  bell,  ywis; 

By  holle  grails,  by  'slids  and  'snails, 

By  old  Sanct  Dunstan  bauld, 
The  Virgin  faire  that  Him  did  beare, 

By  Him  that  Judas  sauld; 

By  Arthure's  sword,  by  Paynim  horde, 

By  holie  modyr's  teir, 
By  Cokis  breath,  by  Zooks  and  'sdeath, 

And  by  Sanct  Swithen  deir; 


512  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

By  divells  alle,  both  greate  and  smalle, 
And  all  in  hell  there  be, 

By  bread  and  salt,  and  by  Gog's  malt, 
And  by  the  blody  tree; 

By  Him  that  worn  the  crown  of  thorn, 
And  by  the  sun  and  mone, 

By  deir  Sanct  Blane  and  Sanct  Fillane, 
And  three  kings  of  Cologne; 

By  the  gude  Lord  and  His  sweit  word, 
By  him  that  herryit  hell, 

By  blessed  Jude,  by  holie  Rude, 
And  eke  by  Gad  himsel'I 

He  sweren  soe  (and  mickle  moe) 
It  made  man's  flesch  to  creepen; 

The  air  ben  blue  with  his  ado, 
And  sore  his  wiffe  ben  wepen. 

Giff  you  wold  know  why  sweren  soe 
The  good  man  hight  Sir  Hoten, 

He  ben  full  wroth  because,  in  soth, 
He  leesed  his  coler  boten. 

March  1,  1887. 


THE  SUSCEPTIBLE  WIDOW 

I  SHOW,  by  my  distressful  tones 

And  by  my  doleful  features, 
How  much  I  miss  the  Reverend  Jones., 

That  best  of  modern  preachers. 
When  his  Chicago  work  was  done 

He  paused  not  to  consider 
What  grief  the  parting  wrought  upon 

One  lorn  and  lonely  widder. 


PIKE'S  PEAK  513 

I  used  to  wend  my  way  each  night 

To  revel  in  his  teachings; 
My  burdened  soul  grew  airy  light 

Beneath  his  magic  preachings. 
I  occupied  a  seat  reserved 

For  struggling  young  beginners, 
And  hung  upon  the  blasts  he  served 

To  unrepentant  sinners. 

Farewell  to  those  delicious  times 

For  silent  adoration! 
My  idol  speeds  to  other  climes 

To  ply  his  sweet  vocation. 
Oh  that  he  might  forget  her  not 

Who  boldly  makes  assertion 
That  from  her  lonely,  widowed  lot 

She  hankers  for  conversion! 
April  6,  1886. 


PIKE'S  PEAK 


I  STOOD  upon  the  peak,  amid  the  air; 

Below  me  lay  the  peopled,  busy  earth. 
Life,  life,  and  life  again  was  everywhere, 

And  everywhere  were  melody  and  mirth, 
Save  on  that  peak,  and  silence  brooded  there. 

I  vaunted  then  myself,  and  half  aloud 

I  gloried  in  the  journey  I  had  done: 
Eschewing  earth  and  earth's  seductive  crowd, 

I  'd  scaled  this  steep,  despite  the  rocks  and  sun; 
Of  such  a  feat  might  any  man  be  proud! 

But,  as  I  boasted  thus,  my  burro  brayed; 

I  turned,  and  lo!   a  tear  was  in  his  eye, 
And  as  I  gazed,  methought  the  burro  sayed: 

"Prithee,  who  brought  you  up  this  mountain  high- 
Was  it  your  legs  or  mine  the  journey  made?" 


514  SHARPS    AND    FLATS 

Then  moralled  I;     The  sturdiest  peak  is  Fame's! 

And  there  be  many  on  its  very  height, 
Who  strut  in  pride  and  vaunt  their  empty  claims, 

While  those  poor  human  asses  who  delight 
To  place  them  there  have  unreinembered  names! 
April  6,  1887. 


LONGINGS 

I  LONG  for  some  intenser  life, 
Some  wilder  joy,  some  sterner  strife! 
A  dull,  slow  stream  whose  waters  pass 
Through  weary  wastes  of  dry  morass, 
Through  reptile-breeding  levels  low— 
A  sluggish  ooze  and  not  a  flow — 
Choked  up  with  fat  and  slimy  weeds 
The  current  of  my  life  proceeds. 

Once  more  to  meet  the  advancing  sun 
Earth  pu\s  her  bridal  glories  on; 
Once  more  beneath  the  summer  moons 
The  whippoorwill  her  song  attunes; 
Once  more  the  elements  are  rife 
With  countless  forms  of  teeming  life. 
Life  fills  the  air  and  fills  the  deeps; 
Life  from  the  quickened  clod  upleaps; 

But  all  too  feeble  is  the  ray 
That  glances  on  our  Northern  day; 
And  man,  beneath  its  faint  impress, 
Grows  sordid,  cold,  and  passionless. 

I  long  to  greet  those  ardent  climes 
Where  the  sun's  burning  heat  sublimes 
All  forms  of  being,  and  imparts 
Its  fervor  even  to  human  hearts; 
To  see  uptowering,  grand  and  calm, 
The  king  of  trees,  the  lordly  palm, 


FROM   THE    RUBAIYAT    OF    OMAR   KHAYYAM  515 

And,  when  night  darkens  through  the  skies, 
Watch  the  strange  constellations  rise; 
The  floral  pomps,  the  fruits  of  gold, 
The  fiery  life  I  would  behold; 
The  swart,  warm  beauties,  luscious-lipped, 
With  hearts  in  passion's  lava  dipped; 
Nature's  excess  and  overgrowth — 
The  light  and  splendor  of  the  South! 

Or  if  it  be  my  lot  to  bear 
This  pulseless  life,  this  blank  despair, 
Waft  me,  ye  winds,  unto  those  isles 
Round  which  the  fair  Pacific  smiles; 
Where,  through  the  sun-bright  atmosphere, 
Their  purple  peaks  the  mountains  rear; 
Where  earth  is  garmented  in  light, 
And  with  unfading  spring  is  bright 
Then,  if  my  life  must  be  a  dream, 
Without  a  plan,  without  a  scheme, 
From  purpose  as  from  action  free, 
A  dream  of  beauty  it  shall  be. 

(Attributed  to)  HORACE  RUBLEE. 
July  4,  1888. 


FROM  THE  RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

UNTO  a  withered  palm-tree  clinging, 
A  yusef-bird  was  wildly  singing, 

And  "yusef,  yusef"  was  the  word 
That  to  my  very  soul  went  winging. 

And  came  to  me  in  my  dejection 
The  keen  and  harrowing  reflection: 

"Thou  art  indeed  a  yusef-bird; 
I  ate  your  kind  the  last  election!" 
August  3,  1889. 


516  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 


MEIN  FAEDER  BED 

ACH,  faeder  bed!   mein  faeder  bed! 

Upon  thy  body  softly  spread, 

What  Cold  von  Winter  shall  I  dread  ? 

All  through  the  night  no  touch  of  storm 
Shall  come  to  nip  or  chill  my  form — 
Du  bist  so  grosser  goot  und  warm! 

The  winds  that  howl  I  need  not  fear, 
But  with  that  faeder  bed  to  cheer, 
I  dream  von  Wiener  wurst  und  beer! 

Sometimes  at  night,  in  turning  o'er, 

I  made  that  bed  upon  the  floor. 

Ach,  then  I  shivered  some,  and  swore! 

But  now  I  either  turn  mit  skill 
Or  lie  in  bed  sahr  grosser  still; 
I  make  me  not  to  swear  or  chill. 

My  Faderland  is  auf  der  sea, 
Und  when  I  sleep  wo  Yankees  be 
How  vainly  shall  I  pine  for  thee! 

How,  when  I  lay  my  weary  head 
Below  ein  cotton  sheet  and  spread, 
Shall  I  lament  das  faeder  bed! 


Yet  still  shall  pleasing  dreams  combine 
To  waft  me  hence  what  joys  are  thine, 
O  faeder  bed,  beyond  the  Rhine! 
Pecember  14,  1889. 


BETHLEHEM   TOWN  517 


BETHLEHEM  TOWN 

THERE  burns  a  star  o'er  Bethlehem  town — 

See,  O  my  eyes! 
And  gloriously  it  beameth  down 
Upon  a  virgin  mother  meek 
And  Him  whom  solemn  Magi  seek. 
Burn  on,  O  star!   and  be  the  light 
To  guide  us  all  to  Him  this  night! 

The  angels  walk  in  Bethlehem  town — 

Hush,  O  my  heart! 
The  angels  come  and  bring  a  crown 
To  Him,  our  Saviour  and  our  King; 
And  sweetly  all  this  night  they  sing. 
Sing  on  in  rapturous  angel  throng, 
That  we  may  learn  that  heavenly  song! 

Near  Bethlehem  towrn  there  blooms  a  tree — 

O  heart,  beat  low! 
And  it  shall  stand  on  Calvary! 
But  from  the  shade  thereof  we  turn 
Unto  the  star  that  still  shall  burn 
When  Christ  is  dead  and  risen  again 
To  mind  us  that  He  died  for  men. 

There  is  a  cry  in  Bethlehem  town — 

Hark,  O  my  soul! 

'T  is  of  the  Babe  that  wears  the  crown. 
It  telleth  us  that  man  is  free — 
That  He  redeemeth  all  and  me! 
The  night  is  sped — behold  the  morn! 
Sing,  O  my  soul;   the  Christ  is  bornl 
December  27,  1889. 


518  SHARPS    AND    FLATS 


IN  HOLLAND 


OUR  course  lay  up  a  smooth  canal. 

Through  tracts  of  velvet  green, 
And  through  the  shade  that  windmills  made 

And  pasture-lands  between. 
The  kine  had  canvas  on  their  backs 

To  temper  autumn's  spite, 
And  everywhere  there  was  an  air 

Of  comfort  and  delight. 

My  wife,  dear  philosophic  soul! 

Saw  here  whereof  to  prate: 
"Vain  fools  are  we  across  the  sea 

To  boast  our  nobler  state! 
Go  North  or  South  or  East  or  West, 

Or  whereso'er  you  please, 
You  shall  not  find  what 's  here  combined— 

Equality  and  ease. 

"How  tidy  are  these  honest  homes 

In  every  part  and  nook! 
The  men-folk  wear  a  prosperous  air, 

The  women  happy  look. 
Seeing  the  peace  that  smiles  around, 

I  would  our  land  were  such. 
Think  as  you  may,  I  'm  free  to  say, 

I  would  we  were  the  Dutch!" 


Just  then  we  overtook  a  boat, 

The  Golden  Tulip  hight; 
Big  with  the  weight  of  motley  freight, 

It  was  a  goodly  sight! 
Mynheer  van  Blarcom  sat  on  deck, 

With  pipe  in  lordly  pose, 
And  with  his  son  of  twenty-one 

He  played  at  dominos. 


IN    PRAISE    OF   PIE  519 

Then  quoth  my  wife:     "How  fair  to  see 

This  sturdy,  honest  man 
Beguile  all  pain  and  lust  of  gain 

With  whatso  joys  he  can! 
Methinks  his  spouse  is  down  below, 

Beading  a  kerchief  gay; 
A  babe,  mayhap,  lolls  in  her  lap 

In  the  good  old  milky  way 

"Where  in  the  land  from  whence  \ve  came 

Is  there  content  like  this? 
Where  such  disdain  of  sordid  gain — 

Such  sweet  domestic  bliss? 
A  homespun  woman  I,  this  land 

Delights  me  overmuch. 
Think  as  you  will  and  argue  still, 

I  like  the  honest  Dutch." 

And  then  my  wife  made  end  of  speech; 

Her  voice  stuck  in  her  throat: 
For,  swinging  round  the  turn,  wre  found 

What  motor  moved  the  boat. 
Hitched  up  in  towpath-harness  there 

Was  neither  horse  nor  cow, 
But  the  buxom  frame  of  a  Hollandish  dame — 

Mynheer  van  Blarcom's  frau! 
January  27,  1890. 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PIE 

I  'D  like  to  weave  a  pretty  rhyme 

To  send  my  Daily  News. 
What  shall  I  do?     In  vain  I  woo 

The  too-exacting  Muse; 
In  vain  I  coax  the  tyrant  minx, 

And  this  the  reason  why: 
She  will  not  sing  a  plaguy  thing, 

Because  I  've  eaten  pie. 


520  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

A  pretty  pass  it  is,  indeed, 

That  I  have  reached  at  last, 
If  I,  in  spite  of  appetite, 

Must  fast,  and  fast,  and  fast! 
The  one  dear  boon  I  am  denied 

Is  that  for  which  I  sigh. 
Take  all  the  rest  that  men  hold  best, 

But  leave,  oh,  leave  me  pie! 

I  hear  that  Whittier  partakes 

Of  pie  three  times  a  day; 
And  it  is  rife  that  with  a  knife 

He  stows  that  pie  away. 
There  's  Stoddard — he  was  raised  on  pie; 

And  he  is  hale  and  fat. 
And  Stedman's  cry  is  always  "pie," 

And  hot  mince-pie  at  that! 

Of  course  I  Jm  not  at  all  like  those 

Great  masters  in  their  art, 
Except  that  pie  doth  ever  lie 

Most  sweetly  next  my  heart, 
And  that  I  fain  would  sing  my  songs 

Without  surcease  or  tiring 
If  'neath  my  vest  and  else  could  rest 

That  viand  all-inspiring! 

What  I  object  to  is  the  harsh, 

Vicarious  sacrifice 
I  'm  forced  to  make  if  I  partake 

Of  fair  and  proper  pies; 
The  pangs  I  suffer  are  the  pangs 

To  other  sinners  due. 
I  'd  gladly  bear  my  righteous  share, 

But  not  the  others',  too. 

How  vain  the  gift  of  heavenly  fire, 
How  vain  the  laurel  wreath, 

If  these  crown  not  that  godlike  spot, 
A  well-filled  paunch  beneath! 


UNCLE   EPH  521 

And  what  is  glory  but  a  sham 

To  those  who  pine  and  sigh 
For  bliss  denied,  which  (as  implied) 

Is  pie,  and  only  pie! 

Well,  since  it 's  come  to  such  a  pass, 

I  boldly  draw  the  line; 
Go  thou,  O  Muse,  which  way  you  choose, 

While  I  meander  mine. 
Farewell,  O  fancies  of  the  pen, 

That  dazzled  once  mine  eye; 
My  choice  may  kill,  but  still,  oh.  still, 

I  choose  and  stand  for  pie! 
April  8,  1890. 


UNCLE  EPH 

MY  Uncle  Ephraim  was  a  man  who  did  not  live  in  vain, 

And  yet,  why  he  succeeded  so  I  never  could  explain. 

By  nature  he  was  not  endowed  with  wit  to  a  degree, 

But  folks  allowed  there  nowhere  lived  a  better  man  than  he. 

He  started  poor,  but  soon  got  rich;   he  went  to  Congress  then, 

And  held  that  post  of  honor  long  against  much  brainier  men; 

He  never  made  a  famous  speech  nor  did  a  thing  of  note, 

And  yet  the  praise  of  Uncle  Eph  welled  up  from  every  throat. 

I  recollect  I  never  heard  him  say  a  bitter  word; 

He  never  carried  to  and  fro  unpleasant  things  he  heard; 

He  always  doffed  his  hat  and  spoke  to  every  one  he  knew; 

He  tipped  to  poor  and  rich  alike  a  genial  " howdy-do"; 

He  kissed  the  babies,  praised  their  looks,  and  said,  "That  child 

will  grow 

To  be  a  Daniel  Webster  or  our  President,  I  know!" 
His  voice  was  so  mellifluous,  his  smile  so  full  of  mirth, 
That  folks  declared  he  was  the  best  and  smartest  man  on  earth! 

Now,  father  was  a  smarter  man,  and  yet  he  never  won 

Such  wealth  and  fame  as  Uncle  Eph,  ''the  deestrick's  fav'rite  son." 


522  SHARPS   AND   FLATS 

He  had  ''convictions,"  and  he  was  not  loath  to  speak  his  mind; 

He  went  his  way  and  said  his  say  as  he  might  be  inclined. 

Yes,  he  was  brainy;   yet  his  life  was  hardly  a  success — 

He  was  too  honest  and  too  smart  for  this  vain  world,  I  guess! 

At  any  rate,  I  wondered  he  was  unsuccessful  when 

My  Uncle  Eph,  a  duller  man,  was  so  revered  of  men! 

When  Uncle  Eph  was  dying  he  called  me  to  his  bed, 

And  in  a  tone  of  confidence  inviolate  he  said: 

"Dear  Willyum,  ere  I  seek  repose  in  yonder  blissful  sphere, 

I  fain  would  breathe  a  secret  in  your  adolescent  ear: 

Strive  not  to  hew  your  path  through  life — it  really  does  n't  pay; 

Be  sure  the  salve  of  flattery  soaps  all  you  do  and  say; 

Herein  the  only  royal  road  to  fame  and  fortune  lies: 

Put  not  your  trust  in  vinegar — molasses  catches  flies!" 

October  11,  1890. 


CHRISTMAS  MORNING 

THE  angel  host  that  sped  last  night, 
Bearing  the  wondrous  news  afar, 

Came  in  their  ever-glorious  flight 
Unto  a  slumbering  little  star. 

"Awake  and  sing,  O  star!"   they  cried. 

"Awake  and  glorify  the  morn! 
Herald  the  tidings  far  and  wide — 

He  that  shall  lead  His  flock  is  born!" 

The  little  star  awoke  and  sung 

As  only  stars  in  rapture  may, 
And  presently  where  church  bells  hung 

The  joyous  tidings  found  their  way. 

"Awake,  O  bells!   't  is  Christmas  morn — 

Awake  and  let  thy  music  tell 
To  all  mankind  that  now  is  born 

What  Shepherd  loves  His  lambkins  well!" 


HYMN:    MIDNIGHT  HOUR  523 

Then  rang  the  bells  as  fled  the  night 
O'er  dreaming  land  and  drowsing  deep, 

And  coming  with  the  morning  light, 
They  called,  my  child,  to  you  asleep. 

Sweetly  and  tenderly  they  spoke, 

And  lingering  round  your  little  bed, 
Their  music  pleaded  till  you  woke, 

And  this  is  what  their  music  said: 

"Awake  and  sing!   't  is  Christmas  morn, 

Whereon  all  earth  salutes  her  King! 
In  Bethlehem  is  the  Shepherd  born. 

Awake,  O  little  lamb,  and  sing!" 

So,  dear  my  child,  kneel  at  my  feet, 

And  with  those  voices  from  above 
Share  thou  this  holy  time  with  me, 

The  universal  hymn  of  love. 
December  25,  1890. 


HYMN:  MIDNIGHT  HOUR 

MIDNIGHT  hour!   how  sweet  the  calm 

Thy  solemn  cadences  impart; 
What  solace  as  of  healing  balm 

Cometh  with  thee  unto  this  heart! 
Yet  bring  me  not  thy  grace  alone — 

Let  others  share  thy  dear  delight; 
Oh,  let  thy  soothing  monotone 

Be  heard  of  all  this  holy  night! 

Anon  shall  angels  walk  the  sky, 
The  stars  cry  out  in  rapturous  glee, 

And  radiant  splendors  glorify 

The  waking  earth  and  wondering  sea; 


524  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

Jehovah's  reassuring  word 
Shall  be  proclaimed  abroad  again, 

And  tidings  everywhere  be  heard 

Of  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men! 

'T  is  of  those  glories  of  the  morn, 

The  sacrifice  that  makes  man  free, 
And  of  the  Babe  in  Bethlehem  born 

That  midnight's  voices  speak  to  me. 
Speak  on,  O  voices  sweet  and  low, 

Soothing  our  griefs  and  doubts  away — 
That  all  mankind  may  hear  and  know 

What  rapture  cometh  with  the  day! 

December  25,  1890. 


WHEN  STEDMAN  COMES  TO  TOWN 

WE  'RE  cleaning  up  the  boulevards 

And  divers  thoroughfares; 
Our  lawns,  our  fences,  and  our  yards 

Are  bristling  with  repairs; 
And  soon  Chicago  '11  be  abloom 

With  splendor  and  renown; 
For  ain't  we  going  to  have  a  boom 

When  Stedman  comes  to  town? 


And  gosh!   the  things  we  '11  have  to  eat — 

The  things  we  '11  have  to  drink! 
O  'er  hecatombs  of  corn-fed  meat 

How  shall  the  glasses  clink! 
Our  culture,  having  started  in, 

Will  do  the  thing  up  brown. 
'T  will  be  a  race  'twixt  brass  and  tin 

When  Stedman  comes  to  town! 


THE   STRAW   HAT  525 

There  's  Mr.  Wayback  Canvass  Hamm, 

Old  Croesus'  counterpart; 
He  don't  know  nor  give  a  damn 

About  poetic  art; 
And  he  has  such  amount  of  pelf 

As  would  weigh  mountains  down, 
And  he  has  sworn  to  spread  himself 

When  Stedman  comes  to  town. 


And  Mrs.  Hamm,  a  faded  belle, 

And  one  no  longer  young, — 
She  speaks  the  native  quite  as  well 

As  any  foreign  tongue, — 
At  Mr.  Hamm's  reception  she 

Will  wear  a  gorgeous  gown 
That  shows  all  else  but  modesty, 

When  Stedman  comes  to  town. 

Now,  Stedman  knows  a  thing  or  two 

Besides  poetic  art; 
Yes,  truth  to  say,  'twixt  me  and  you, 

Stedman  is  mighty  smart; 
And  so  I  wonder  will  he  smile 

Good-naturedly  or  frown 
At  our  flamboyant  Western  style, 

When  Stedman  comes  to  town. 
April  23,  1891. 


THE  STRAW  HAT 

THE  sweet  shade  falls  athwart  her  face, 
And  leaves  half  shadow  and  half  light — • 

Dimples  and  lips  in  open  day, 

And  dreamy  brows  and  eyes  in  night. 


526  SHARPS    AND    FLATS 

So  low  the  languid  eyelids  fall, 

They  rest  their  silk  upon  her  cheek, 

And  give  delicious  laziness 

To  glances  arch  and  cunning  meek. 

It  cannot  frown,  the  placid  brow 

Hidden  in  rare  obscurity; 
They  cannot  hate,  the  indolent  eyes, 

The  sins  they  do  not  strive  to  see. 

And  in  the  sunshine  of  her  cheeks 
The  wanton  dimples  are  at  play, 

So  frolic-earnest  in  their  sport 
They  do  not  care  to  look  away. 

And,  oh,  if  love,  kiss-winged,  should  come 
And  light  on  such  a  rose  as  this, 

Could  brow  or  eye  or  dimples  blame 
Such  lips  for  giving  back  a  kiss  ? 

June  24,  1891. 


A  WAR-SONG 

AWAKE!   arise,  ye  patriot  brave, 

Your  duty  to  fulfill! 
Rush  in  your  righteous  wrath  to  save 

The  land  from  threatened  ill. 
Foul  treachery's  vengeful  shadows  flit 

Like  demons  everywhere; 
And  Baby  Cleveland  wants  to  sit 

In  grandpa's  baby's  chair. 

Shall  this  spoiled  darling  vanquish  that 
Sweet  Hoosier  younkit  ?     Nay ! 

She  '11  never  wear  her  grandpa's  hat — 
She  is  n't  built  that  way. 


EXTINCT    MONSTERS  527 

Out — out  upon  the  pampered  chit  I 

The  patriot  legions  swear 
That  Baby  Cleveland  shall  not  sit 

In  grandpa's  baby's  chair! 

So  come!    We  '11  lift  our  standard  high — 

A  tiny  pair  of  pants! 
This  "In  hoc  signo"    '11  petrify 

All  Mugwump  sycophants! 
Stern  common  sense  shall  soon  outwit 

Each  sentimental  snare; 
And  Baby  Cleveland  shall  not  sit 

In  grandpa's  baby's  chair! 
June  24,  1892. 


EXTINCT  MONSTERS 

OH,  had  I  lived  in  the  good  old  days, 
When  the  Ichthyosaurus  ramped  around, 

When  the  Elasmosaur  swam  the  bays, 
And  the  Sivatherium  pawed  the  ground, 

Would  I  have  spent  my  precious  time 

At  weaving  golden  thoughts  in  rhyme? 

When  the  Tinoceras  snooped  about, 
And  the  Pterodactyl  flapped  its  wings, 

When  the  Brontops  with  the  warty  snout 
Noseyed  around  for  herbs  and  things, 

Would  I  have  bothered  myself  o'ermuch 

About  divine  afflatus  and  such? 

The  Dinotherium  flourished  then; 

The  Pterygotus  lashed  the  seas; 
The  Rhamphorhynchus  prospered  when 

The  Scaphognathus  perched  in  trees; 
And  every  creature,  wild  and  tame, 
Rejoiced  in  some  rococo  name. 


528  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

Pause  and  ponder;   who  could  write 

A  triolet  or  roundelay 
While  a  Megatherium  yawped  all  night 

And  a  Hesperornis  yamped  all  day, 
While  now  and  again  the  bray  sonorous 
Of  Glyptodon  Asper  swelled  the  chorus  ? 

If  I  'd  been  almost  anything 

But  a  poet,  I  might  have  got  along: 

Those  extinct  monsters  of  hoof  and  wing 
Were  not  conducive  to  lyric  song; 

So  Nature  reserved  this  tender  bard 

For  the  kindlier  Age  of  Pork  and  Lard. 

May  11,  1893. 


MRS.  REILLY'S  PEACHES 

WHETHER  in  Michigan  they  grew, 

Or  by  the  far  Pacific, 
Or  Jerseywards,  I  never  knew 

Or  cared;   they  were  magnifique! 
They  set  my  hungry  eyes  aflame, 

My  heart  to  beating  quicker, 
When  trotted  out  by  that  good  dame, 

A-drowned  in  spicy  liquor! 

Of  divers  swreets  in  many  a  land 

I  have  betimes  partaken, 
Yet  now  for  those  old  joys  I  stand, 

My  loyalty  unshaken! 
My  palate,  weary  of  the  ways 
.  Of  modern  times,  beseeches 
The  toothsome  grace  of  halcyon  days 

And  Mrs.  Reilly's  peaches! 

Studded  with  cloves  and  cinnamon, 
And  duly  spiced  and  pickled, 

That  viand  was  as  choice  an  one 
As  ever  palate  tickled! 


O'CONNOR'S  ILOQUINT  SPACHE  529 

And  by  those  peaches  on  his  plate 

No  valorous  soul  was  daunted, 
For  oh,  the  more  of  them  you  ate 

The  more  of  them  you  wanted! 

The  years  have  dragged  a  weary  pace 

Since  last  those  joys  I  tasted, 
And  I  have  grown  so  wan  of  face 

And  oh,  so  slender- waisted ! 
Yes,  all  is  sadly  changed,  and  yet 

If  this  eulogium  reaches 
A  certain  lady,  I  shall  get 

A  quick  return  in  peaches. 
May  15,  1893. 


O'CONNOR'S  ILOQUINT  SPACHE 

'T  wuz  whin  O'Connor  shpoke  the  crowd 

Grew  pathriotic  truly; 
For  him  O'Dooley  hit  O'Dowd 

And  Healy  shtruck  O'Dooley; 
And  Redmond  give  Muldoon  a  swat, 

And  all  wint  well,  begorry, 
And  there  was  Home  Rule  on  that  shpot, 
Till  to  his  fate  O'Connor  got, 
An'  sez,  sez  he:     "For  say  in'  phwat 

Oi  did,"  sez  he,  "Oi  'm  sorry!" 
July  29,  1893. 


DOCTOR  RABELAIS 

ONCE — it  was  many  years  ago, 

In  early  wedded  life, 
Ere  yet  my  loved  one  had  become 

A  very  knowing  wife, 


530  SHARPS   AND   FLATS 

She  came  to  me  and  said:     "My  dear, 
I  think  (and  do  not  you?) 

That  we  should  have  about  the  house 
A  doctor's  book  or  two. 

"Our  little  ones  have  sundry  ills 

Which  I  should  understand 
And  cure  myself,  if  I  but  had 

A  doctor's  book  at  hand. 
Why  not  economize,  my  dear, 

In  point  of  doctor's  bills 
By  purchasing  the  means  to  treat 

Our  little  household  ills?" 

Dear,  honest,  patient  little  wife! 

She  did  not  even  guess 
She  offered  me  the  very  prize 

I  hankered  to  possess. 
"You  argue  wisely,  wife,"  quoth  I. 

"Proceed  without  delay 
To  find  and  comprehend  the  works 

Of  Doctor  Rabelais." 

I  wrote  the  title  out  for  her 

(She  'd  never  heard  the  name), 
And  presently  she  bought  those  books, 

And  home  she  lugged  the  same; 
I  clearly  read  this  taunting  boast 

On  her  triumphant  brow: 
"Aha,  ye  venal  doctors  all, 

Ye  are  outwitted  now!" 

Those  volumes  stood  upon  the  shelf 

A  month  or  two  unread, 
Save  as  such  times  by  night  I  conned 

Their  precious  wit  in  bed; 
But  once — it  was  a  wintry  time — 

I  heard  my  loved  one  say: 
"This  child  is  croupy;   I  '11  consult 

My  doctor,  Rabelais!" 


DOCTOR   RABELAIS  531 

Soon  from  her  delusive  dream 

My  beauteous  bride  awoke. 
Too  soon  she  grasped  the  fulness  of 

My  bibliomaniac  joke. 
There  came  a  sudden,  shocking  change, 

As  you  may  well  suppose, 
And  with  her  reprehensive  voice 

The  temperature  arose. 

But  that  was  many  years  ago, 

In  early  wedded  life, 
And  that  dear  lady  has  become 

A  very  knowing  wife; 
For  she  hath  learned  from  Rabelais 

What  elsewhere  is  agreed: 
The  plague  of  bibliomania  is 

A  cureless  ill  indeed. 

And  still  at  night,  when  all  the  rest 

Are  hushed  in  sweet  repose, 
O'er  those  two  interdicted  tomes 

I  laugh  and  nod  and  doze. 
From  worldly  ills  and  business  cares 

My  weary  mind  is  lured, 
And  by  that  doctor's  magic  art 

My  ailments  all  are  cured. 

So  my  dear,  knowing  little  wife 

Is  glad  that  it  is  so, 
And  with  a  smile  recalls  the  trick 

I  played  her  years  ago; 
And  whensoe'er  dyspeptic  pangs 

Compel  me  to  their  sway, 
The  saucy  girl  bids  me  consult 

My  Doctor  Rabelais! 
November  22,  1894. 


532  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 


SONG 

WHY  do  the  bells  of  Christmas  ring? 
Why  do  little  children  sing? 

Once  a  lovely  shining  star, 
Seen  by  shepherds  from  afar, 
Gently  moved  until  its  light 
Made  a  manger's  cradle  bright. 

There  a  darling  baby  lay, 
Pillowed  soft  upon  the  hay; 
And  its  mother  sung  and  smiled: 
"This  is  Christ,  the  holy  Child!" 

Therefore  bells  for  Christmas  ring, 
Therefore  little  children  sing. 
December  12,  1894. 


TO    WARD    H.    LAMON,    ASLEEP    ON    HIS 
LIBRARY    FLOOR 

As  you,  dear  Lamon,  soundly  slept, 
With  books  around  you  on  the  floor, 

Into  this  pleasant  nook  I  crept, 
To  hear  the  music  of  your  snore. 

A  man  who  sleeps  as  now  you  sleep, 

Who  pipes  as  music' ly  as  you, 
Who  sinks  all  care  in  slumbers  deep, 

As  you,  O  happy  man,  now  do, 

Must  have  a  conscience  fully  free 
Of  troublous  pangs  and  vain  ado: 

So  ever  may  your  slumbers  be, 
So  ever  be  your  conscience,  too! 


THE    SNAKES  533 

And  when  the  last  sweet  sleep  of  all 

Shall  smooth  the  wrinkles  from  your  brow, 

Oh,  may  God's  eyes  as  kindly  fall 
Upon  your  sleep  as  mine  do  now! 

February  13,  1891. 


THE  SNAKES 

THESE  are  the  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw: 
Some  were  green  and  some  were  white, 
Some  were  black  as  the  spawn  of  night; 

Some  were  yellow; 

And  one  big  fellow 
Had  monstrous  blotches  of  angry  red, 
And  a  scarlet  welt  on  his  slimy  head; 
And  other  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw 

Were  of  every  hue 

From  pink  to  blue, 
And  the  longer  he  looked  the  bigger  they  grew! 

An  old  he-snake  with  a  frowsy  head 
Was  one  of  the  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw. 
This  old  he-snake  he  grinned  and  leered 
When  he  saw  that  Rowdy  was  afeard; 
And  he  ran  out  his  tongue  in  frightful  wise 
As  he  batted  his  fireless  dead-fish  eyes; 
And  he  lashed  his  tail 
In  the  moonlight  pale, 

And  he  tickled  his  jaw  with  his  left  hind  paw — 
Did  this  old  he-snake  that  Rowdy  saw! 

These  hideous  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw 
Wriggled  and  twisted 
Wherever  they  listed, 
Straightway  glided 
Or  ambled  one-sided. 
There  were  some  of  those  things 
That  had  fiery  wings — 


534  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

Yes,  some  of  the  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw 

Hummed  round  in  the  air 

With  their  eyeballs  aglare 

And  their  whiskers  aflare; 
And  they  hissed  their  approval  of  Rowdy's  despair! 

And  some  of  the  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw 

Had  talons  like  bats, 

And  looked  like  a  cross  between  buzzards  and  rats! 
They  crawled  from  his  boots,  and  they  sprawled  on  the  floor; 
They  sat  on  the  mantel,  and  perched  on  the  door, 
And  grinned  all  the  fiercer  the  louder  he  swore! 

Out,  out  of  his  boots 
Came  the  damnable  brutes — 
These  murdersome  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw! 
Strange  cries  they  uttered, 
And  poison  they  sputtered 
As  they  crawled  or  they  fluttered. 
This  way  and  that 
Their  venom  they  spat, 
Till  Rowdy  had  doubts  as  to  where  he  was  at. 

They  twined  round  his  legs,  and  encircled  his  waist; 
His  arms  and  his  neck  and  his  breast  they  embraced; 
They  hissed  in  his  ears,  and  they  spat  in  his  eyes, 
And  with  their  foul  breaths  interrupted  his  cries. 

Blue  serpents  and  green, 
Red,  yellow,  and  black, 

Of  as  hideous  mien 

As  ever  was  seen, 
Girt  him  round,  fore  and  back, 

And  higgling 

And  wiggling, 

With  their  slimy  and  grinny  preponderance  they  bore 
Rowdy  down  to  the  floor.     He  remembers  no  more. 

The  sequel  is  this:  The  snakes  that  he  saw 

Were  such  hideous  snakes,  were  such  torturesome  things, 
With  their  poison-tipped  fangs  and  their  devil-claw  wings, 


THE    BOY  535 

That  he  speaks  of  them  now  with  a  meaningful  awe; 
And  when  in  the  bar-room  the  bottle  goes  round, 
And  wassail  and  laughter  and  " boodle"  abound, 

Poor  Rowdy  he  turns  down  his  glass  with  a  sigh. 

"Come,  Rowdy,  drink  hearty!"    the  aldermen  cry. 

His  palate  is  yearning,  his  fauces  are  dry, 

The  bottle  appeals  to  his  gullet  and  eye; 

But  he  thinks  of  the  snakes,  and  he— lets  it  go  by. 

January  4,  1895. 


THE  BOY 

DOWN  through  the  snow-drifts  in  the  street 

With  blustering  joy  he  steers; 
His  rubber  boots  are  full  of  feet 

And  his  tippet  full  of  ears. 

January  15,  1895. 


THE  BUGABOO 

THERE  was  a  wonderful  bugaboo 

Lived  in  a  drear  Egyptian  clime, 
And  with  a  base  intent  he  flew 

Up  northward  once  upon  a  time. 
Where  little  Quincy  Browning  slept, 

This  boogy  flew  without  delay, 
And  down  the  chimney-flue  he  crept 

To  steal  that  pretty  child  away. 

Awakened  in  the  dead  of  night 

By  him  a-crawling  down  the  flue, 
Imagine  little  Quincy's  fright 

To  see  the  dreadful  bugaboo. 
He  wept  with  all  his  might  and  main 

Till  all  his  tears  were  nearly  spent, 
But  his  remonstrances  were  vain — 

The  bugaboo  would  not  relent. 


536  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

"Be  quiet,"  hissed  the  bugaboo, 

And  then  he  scratched  the  infant  sore, 
And  from  his  little  crib  he  drew 

The  screaming  child  upon  the  floor. 
But  all  for  nothing  were  his  pains, 

For  as  he  flew  to  Egypt  wild 
In  rushed  the  good  old  Gran'ma  Haines 

To  see  what  ailed  her  precious  child. 

"Go,  leave  my  pretty  dear  alone, 

And  never  dare  again  intrude!" 
Cried  gran'ma,  in  a  savage  tone 

And  with  a  threatening  attitude. 
He  dropped  his  screaming,  struggling  prey, 

And  scuttled  up  the  chimney-flue; 
And  back  to  Egypt  far  away 

Escaped  the  dreadful  bugaboo. 
January  28,  1885. 


A  VALENTINE 

TO  THE  EVER-ADORABLE  AND  EVER-GRACIOUS  MISSES  ANNA  DELLA 
AND  ELIZABETH  WINSLOW,  AGED  TEN  AND  SEVEN  YEARS 
RESPECTIVELY 

IF  I  were  Eric  Ericsson,  with  flowing  flaxen  hair, 

Perhaps  Miss  Anna  Delia  would  not  scoff  at  my  despair. 

Perhaps  my  sweet  Elizabeth  would  bless  me  with  a  smile 

If  I  were  Patrick  Miles  O'Dowd — a  lord  from  Erin's  isle. 

Alas,  I  am  not  Eric,  and  alas,  I  am  not  Pat! 

I  simply  am  a  Yankee  boy,  and  a  tough  old  one  at  that. 

Yet  do  I  love  these  beauteous  maids  whom  I  have  named  above, 

And  send  them  both  this  valentine  to  tell  them  of  my  love — 

A  paltry,  graceless  thing,  yet  with  a  thousand  kisses  sealed, 

And  autographed  (as  you  observe)  by  poor  old  FIELD. 

February  14,  1895. 


THE   TIN    BANK  537 


THE  TIN  BANK 

SPEAKING  of  the  banks,  I  'm  bound  to  say 

That  a  bank  of  tin  is  far  the  best, 
And  I  know  of  one  that  has  stood  for  years 

In  a  pleasant  home  away  out  West; 
It  had  stood  for  years  on  the  mantelpiece, 

Between  the  clock  and  the  Wedgwood  plate — 
A  wonderful  bank,  as  you  '11  concede 

When  you  've  heard  the  things  I  '11  now  relate. 

This  bank  was  made  of  McKinley  tin, 

W7ell  soldered  up  at  sides  and  back; 
But  it  didn't  resemble  tin  at  all, 

For  they  'd  painted  it  over  an  iron-black. 
And  that  it  really  was  a  bank 

'T  was  an  easy  thing  to  see  and  say, 
For  above  the  door  in  gorgeous  red 

Appeared  the  letters  B-A-N-K. 

This  bank  had  been  so  well  devised 

And  wrought  so  cunningly  that  when 
You  put  your  money  in  that  hole 

It  couldn't  get  out  of  that  hole  again! 
Somewhere  about  that  stanch,  snug  thing 

A  secret  spring  was  hid  away, 
But  where  it  was,  or  how  it  worked — 

Excuse  me,  please,  but  I  will  not  say. 

Thither,  with  dimpled  cheeks  aglow 

Came  pretty  children  oftentimes, 
And,  standing  upon  a  stool  or  chair, 

Put  in  their  divers  pence  and  dimes. 
Once  Uncle  Hank  came  home  from  town, 

After  a  cycle  of  grand  events, 
And  put  in  a  round  blue  ivory  thing 

He  said  was  good  for  fifty  cents! 


538  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 

The  bank  went  clinkety-clinkety-clink, 

And  larger  grew  the  precious  sum, 
Which  grandma  said  she  hoped  would  prove 

A  gracious  boon  to  heathendom! 
But  there  were  those — I  call  no  names — 

Who  did  not  fancy  any  plan 
That  did  not  in  some  wise  involve 

The  candy  and  banana  man. 

Listen:   Once  when  the  wind  went  "  Y-o-o-o-o-o-o ! " 
When  with  a  wail  the  screech-owl  flew 

Out  of  her  lair  in  the  haunted  barn — 

There  came  three  burglars  down  the  road, 

Three  burglars  skilled  in  arts  of  sin, 

And  they  cried:    "What's  this?   Aha!     Oho!" 

They  burgled  from  half-past  ten  p.  M. 

Till  the  village  bell  struck  four  o'clock; 
They  hunted  and  searched  and  guessed  and  tried — 

But  the  little  tin  bank  would  not  unlock! 
They  couldn't  discover  the  secret  spring! 

So  when  the  barn-yard  rooster  crowed, 
They  up  with  their  tools  and  stole  away, 

With  the  bitter  remark  that  they  'd  be  blowed ! 

Next  morning  came  a  sweet-faced  child, 

And  reached  her  dimpled  hand  to  take 
A  nickel  to  send  to  the  heathen  poor 

And  a  nickel  to  spend  for  her  stomach's  sake; 
She  pressed  the  hidden  secret  spring, 

And  lo!   the  bank  flew  open  then 
With  a  cheery  creek  that  seemed  to  say 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you  come  again!" 

If  you  were  I,  and  if  I  were  you, 
What  would  we  keep  our  money  in? 

In  a  down-town  bank  of  British  steel 
Or  an  at  home  bank  of  McKinley  tin? 


MY   SABINE    FARM  539 

Some  want  silver  and  some  want  gold, 
But  the  little  tin  bank  that  wants  the  two 

And  is  run  on  the  double-standard  plan — 
Why,  that  is  the  bank  for  me  and  you! 

June  22,  1895. 


MY   SABINE   FARM 

AT  last  I  have  a  Sabine  farm 

Abloom  with  shrubs  and  flowers; 
And  garlands  gay  I  weave  by  day 

Amid  those  fragrant  bowers; 
And  yet,  O  fortune  hideous, 
I  have  no  blooming  Lydias; 
And  what,  ah,  what's  a  Sabine  farm  to  us  without  its  Lydias? 

Within  my  cottage  is  a  room 

Where  I  would  fain  be  merry; 
Come  one  and  all  unto  that  hall, 

Where  you  '11  be  welcome,  very! 
I  've  a  butler  who  's  Hibernian — 
But  no,  I  've  no  Falernian! 
And  what,  ah,  what 's  a  Sabine  farm  to  you  without  Falernian  ? 

Upon  this  cosey  Sabine  farm 

What  breeds  my  melancholy? 
Why  is  my  Muse  down  with  the  blues 

Instead  of  up  and  jolly? 
A  secret  this  between  us: 
I  'm  shy  of  a  Maecenas! 
And  what 's,  oh,  what 's  a  Sabine  farm  to  me  without  Maecenas ! 

August  1,  1895. 


540  SHARPS   AND    FLATS 


THE  VINEYARD 

INTO  the  vineyard  I  went  with  Bill, 

Blithe  as  youth  can  be, 
As  the  sun  declined  beyond  the  hill 

And  drowsed  in  the  western  sea; 
And  under  the  arching  vines  we  sat, 
And  we  sampled  this  and  we  sampled  that 
Till  we  didn't  know  where  we  were  at, 

Nor  the  devil  a  bit  cared  we. 

Out  of  the  vineyard  I  came  with  Bill, 

Just  in  time  to  see 
The  sun  peep  over  an  eastern  hill 

And  grin  at  Bill  and  me. 
And  Bill  remarked:  "We  quit  too  soon; 
Let  us  sit  in  the  light  of  that  silvery  moon 
And  list  to  the  nightingale's  plaintive  tune!" 

So  back  to  the  vineyard  went  we. 
September  7,  1895. 


FOR  THE  CHARMING  MISS  I.  F.'S  ALBUM 

IF  you  loved  me  as  I  love  you, 
No  knife  could  cut  our  love  in  two! 
Not  even  though  that  envious  blade 
Of  rare  Toledo  stuff  was  made, 
Not  though  its  handle  lay  within 
The  grasp  of  mighty  Saladin; 
I  should  not  heed;  its  feeble  shock 
Would  fall  as  on  a  flinty  rock, 
And  its  attack  would  simply  be 
A  trifling  incident  to  me; 
It  could  not  cut  our  love  in  two 
If  you  loved  me  as  I  love  you! 


FOR  THE    CHARMING   MISS   I.   F.'s   ALBUM  541 

Nor  could  the  mighty  cyclone's  wrath, 
That  levels  cities  in  its  path, 
Uproots  whole  forests,  mows  the  grain, 
And  furrows  up  the  stubborn  plain, 
It  could  not  cause  me  to  repine 
If  only  your  true  love  were  mine! 
I  'd  bid  the  boisterous  breezes  blow — 
Knowing  as  only  I  should  know 
They  could  not  rend  our  love  in  two 
If  you  loved  me  as  I  love  you! 

And  if  a  Herr  Professor  came 
(I  hint  no  hint,  I  name  no  name!) — 
What  if  he  came  from  oversea, 
And  riddled,  as  can  only  he, 
Antique  sonatas  by  the  score, 
Etudes  and  opuses  galore, 
And  other  tunes  from  foreign  lands 
One  likes,  but  seldom  understands — 
The  tweedledees  and  tweedledums 
We  always  get  when  Thomas  comes; 
We  'd  let  him  fiddle— all  his  art 
Could  never  riddle  us  apart, 
Could  never  charm  our  love  in  two 
If  you  loved  me  as  I  love  you! 

If — ah,  that  "if"  stands  in  the  way, 

And  so  I  've  nothing  more  to  say; 

I  '11  to  your  father;    he  '11  insure 

A  speedy  menticulture  cure 

For  him  who  would  not  wail  "boo-hoo* 

If  you  loved  me  as  I  love  you! 

October  16,  1895. 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

A  beggar-man  crept  to  my  side 453 

A  bingo  bird  once  nestled  her  nest 324 

A  Boston  gentleman  declares 479 

A  bottle-tree  bloometh  in  Winkyway  land — 290 

A  century  or  so  ago 493 

A  child  was  singing  at  his  play— 417 

A  Dibdin  properly  displayed 487 

A  dying  mother  gave  to  you     .     .... 1 

A  flimflam  flopped  from  a  fillamaloo 329 

A  fool,  when  plagued  by  fleas  by  night 509 

A  little  bit  of  a  woman  came 60 

A  little  boy  named  Thomas  ate 456 

A  little  boy  whose  name  was  Tim 332 

A  little  peach  in  the  orchard  grew 30 

A  moonbeam  floateth  from  the  skies 254 

A  poet,  crazed  by  Mammon,  hung 438 

A  sorry  life,  forsooth,  these  wretched  girls  are  undergoing 399 

A  sunbeam  comes  a-creeping 281 

A  tortuous  double  iron  track;  a  station  here,  a  station  there 151 

Abou  Ben  Halstead — may  his  tribe  increase!       467 

Accept,  dear  girl,  this  little  token 64 

Ach,  faeder  bed!   mein  faeder  bed! 516 

Achievin'  sech  distinction  with  his  moddel  tabble  dote 7 

.  Afore  we  went  to  Denver  we  had  heerd  the  Tabor  Grand 13 

After  dear  old  grandma  died 267 

Aha!  a  traitor  in  the  camp 255 

All  day  long  they  come  and  go — 221 

Amber  clouds  on  a  cobalt  sky 454 

An  editor  in  Kankakee 459 

And  thou,  twin  orbs  of  love  and  joy! 334 

And  when  at  last,  with  priestly  pray'r 503 

Any  color,  so  long  as  it's  red 93 

As  beats  the  sun  from  mountain  crest 103 

As  I  am  sitting  in  the  sun  upon  the  porch  to-day 232 

As  I  was  going  to  Bethlehem-town 134 

As  on  my  roving  way  I  go 496 

543 


544  INDEX    TO    FIRST    LINES 

PAGE 

As  once  I  rambled  in  the  woods 141 

As  to-night  you  came  your  way 116 

As  you,  dear  Lamon,  soundly  slept 532 

Assert  ten  Barren  love  day  made 446 

At  last  I  have  a  Sabine  farm 539 

At  Madge,  ye  hoyden,  gossips  scofft 18 

Awake!  arise,  ye  patriot  brave 526 

Away  down  East  where  I  was  reared  amongst  my  Yankee  kith 142 

Ba-ba,  baby  sheep 319 

Bambino  in  his  cradle  slept 266 

Be  tranquil,  Dellius,  I  pray 359 

Ben  Butler,  on  a  summer's  day 474 

Bill  was  short  and  dapper,  while  I  was  thin  and  tall 110 

Blithe  was  the  youth  that  summer  day 83 

Boy,  I  detest  the  Persian  pomp ....  354 

"Bring  me  a  tiny  mouse's  skin" 455 

Broad  expanse  of  shiny  shirt-front 468 

Buttercup,  Poppy,  Forget-me-not — 233 

Can  I  forget  that  winter  night 460 

Chloe,  you  shun  me  like  a  hind 380 

Chloris,  my  friend,  I  pray  you  your  misconduct  to  forswear 352 

Cinna,  the  great  Venusian,  told 417 

Come,  brothers,  share  the  fellowship 162 

"Come,  Chloe,  beauteous  maiden,  come 475 

Come,  dear  old  friend,  and  with  us  twain 350 

Come,  Harvey,  let  us  sit  awhile  and  talk  about  the  times 252 

Come  hither,  lyttel  childe,  and  lie  upon  my  breast  to-night 261 

Come,  let  us  quaff  a  stirrup-cup 475 

Come,  my  Lesbia,  no  repining 428 

Come,  my  little  one,  with  me! 301 

Come,  now,  who  is  this  Pasadene 450 

Come,  Phyllis,  I've  a  cask  of  wine 378 

Cometh  the  Wind  from  the  garden,  fragrant  and  full  of  sweet  singing —      .     .  166 

Corinthian  Hall  is  a  tumble-down  place 104 

"  Cupid !"  Venus  went  a-crying 423* 

Dear,  noble  friend!  a  virgin  cask 351 

Dear  Palmer,  just  a  year  ago  we  did  the  Carlsbad  cure 92 

Dear  wife,  last  midnight,  whilst  I  read 88 

Dearest,  how  hard  it  is  to  say 237 

Did  I  dream?     Was  't  a  fancy       .     .     . 451 

Don't  take  on  so,  Hiram 128 

Down  in  the  old  French  quarter 172 

Down  south  there  is  a  curio-shop 165 

Down  through  the  snow-drifts  in  the  street 535 

Dream,  dream,  dream 334 


INDEX    TO    FIRST    LINES  545 

PAGE 

Ed  was  a  man  that  played  for  keeps,  'nd  when  he  tuk  the  notion 185 

Eftsoons  the  priest  had  made  his  say 504 

Eros  is  the  god  of  love 421 

Every  evening,  after  tea 227 

P'air  is  the  castle  upon  the  hifl — 259 

Fair  was  her  young  and  girlish  face 471 

Far,  far  beyond  yon  Eastern  steeps 319 

Father  calls  me  William,  sister  calls  me  Will 273 

Father,  I  cry  to  Thee! 429 

Fisherman  Jim  lived  on  the  hill 313 

Friend,  by  the  way  you  hump  yourself  you're  from  the  States,  I  know  .     .     .  101 

From  Hanover  to  Leipzig  is  but  a  little  way 132 

From  hill  and  plain  to  the  State  of  Maine 490 

From  Onathlamba  in  the  west 440 

From  out  Cologne  there  came  three  kings 108 

From  the  flow'rs  and  from  the  trees 322 

From  the  land  of  logs  and  peaches 508 

Full  many  a  sinful  notion 28 

Fuscus,  whoso  to  good  inclines 361 

George  William  Curtis  met  a  lad 457 

"  Give  me  my  bow,"  said  Robin  Hood 336 

Go,  Cupid,  and  my  sweetheart  tell 308 

God  rest  you,  Chrysten  gentil  men 45 

Good  editor  Dana — God  bless  him,  we  say — 146 

Good  old  days— dear  old  days 188 

Good-by,  old  stamp;  it's  nasty  luck 448 

Grieve  not,  my  Albius,  if  thoughts  of  Glycera  may  haunt  you 363 

Grim  is  the  face  that  looks  into  the  night 411 

Happy  the  man  that,  when  his  day  is  done 186 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  Sugar- Plum  Tree? 215 

Have  you  ever  heard  the  wind  go  "Yooooo"? 270 

Have  you  got  the  jellies  made,  mother? 462 

Here  died  a  robin  in  the  spring 326 

His  listening  soul  hears  no  echo  of  battle 229 

His  was  the  sword  that  from  its  scabbard  leapt 489 

Ho,  pretty  bee,  did  you  see  my  croodlin'  doo? 240 

Holly  standeth  in  ye  house        85 

How  calm,  how  beauteous  and  how  cool — 416 

How  cool  and  fair  this  cellar  where 418 

How  fair  you  are,  my  mother! 63 

How  happens  it,  my  cruel  miss 381 

How  infamous  that  men  should  raise 476 

How  trifling  shall  these  gifts  appear 142 

Hush,  bonnie,  dinna  greit 222 

Hush,  little  one,  and  fold  your  hands — 264 


546  INDEX    TO    FIRST    LINES 

PAGE 

I  ain't  afeard  uv  snakes,  or  toads,  or  bugs,  or  worms,  or  mice 310 

I  am  booming,  brother,  booming 469 

I  cannot  eat  my  porridge 344 

I  count  my  treasures  o'er  with  care 263 

I  hasten  from  the  land  of  snows 318 

I  hate  the  common,  vulgar  herd! 404 

I  hear  Thy  voice,  dear  Lord 31 

I  like  the  Anglo-Saxon  speech 43 

I  long  for  some  intenser  life 514 

I  looked  in  the  brook  and  saw  a  face— 299 

I  love  the  lyric  muse! 366 

I  loved  him  so;  his  voice  had  grown 258 

I  often  wonder  mother  loves  to  creep 460 

I  once  knew  all  the  birds  that  came 241 

I  pray  that,  risen  from  the  dead 230 

I  say,  as  one  who  never  feared 274 

I  see  you,  Maister  Bawsy-brown 27 

I  shall  tell  you  in  rhyme  how,  once  on  a  time 150 

show,  by  my  distressful  tones 512 

stood  upon  the  peak,  amid  the  air 513 

thought  myself,  indeed,  secure 247 

was  a  mother,  and  I  weep 253 

was  just  a  little  thing 265 

wish't  I  lived  away  down  East,  where  codfish  salt  the  sea 498 

I  wonder  ef  all  wimmin  air 127 

I'd  like  to  be  a  cowboy  an'  ride  a  firey  hoss 342 

I'd  like  to  weave  a  pretty  rhyme 519 

I'd  not  complain  of  Sister  Jane,  for  she  was  good  and  kind 183 

If  ever  in  the  sylvan  shade 371 

If  for  your  oath  broken,  or  word  lightly  spoken 383 

If  I  were  Eric  Ericsson,  with  flowing  flaxen  hair 536 

If  our  own  life  is  the  life  of  a  flower 415 

If  thou  wilt  shut  thy  drowsy  eyes 262 

If  you  loved  me  as  I  love  you 540 

I'm  a  beautiful  red,  red  drum 276 

I'm  going  to  write  a  letter  to  our  oldest  boy  who  went 249 

I'm  hastening  from  the  distant  hills 323 

I'm  thinking  of  the  wooing 407 

I'm  weary  of  this  weather  and  I  hanker  for  the  ways 204 

In  an  ocean,  'way  out  yonder 275 

In  former  times  my  numerous  rhymes  excited  general  mirth 135 

In  Ipswich  nights  are  cool  and  fair 109 

In  maudlin  spite  let  Thracians  fight        358 

In  Oberhausen,  on  a  time 65 

In  the  market  of  Clare,  so  cheery  the  glare 202 

In  this  week's  history  of  the  Fair 449 

In  yonder  old  cathedral 202 

Into  the  vineyard  I  went  with  Bill 540 


INDEX    TO    FIRST    LINES  547 

PAGE 

Into  the  woods  three  huntsmen  came 406 

It  Is  very  aggravating 23 

It  seems  like  a  dream — that  sweet  wooing  of  old — 452 

It's  everywhere  that  women  fair  invite  and  please  my  eye 120 

It's  June  ag'in,  an'  in  my  soul  I  feel  the  flllin'  joy 299 

It's  when  the  birds  go  piping  and  the  daylight  slowly  breaks 279 

I've  travelled  in  heaps  of  countries,  and  studied  all  kinds  of  art 107 

Jest  as  atween  the  awk'ard  lines  a  hand  we  love  has  penn'd 199 

Keep  me,  I  pray,  in  wisdom's  way 22 

King  Grover  at  his  table  round 499 

Krinken  was  a  little  child 216 

Last  night,  as  my  dear  babe  lay  dead 278 

Last  night,  my  darling,  as  you  slept 231 

Last  night  the  Stork  came  stalking 289 

Last  night,  whiles  that  the  curfew  bell  ben  ringing 245 

Lie  in  my  arms,  Ailsie,  my  bairn 36 

Little  All-Aloney's  feet 308 

Little  eyelids,  cease  your  winking 327 

Little  Miss  Brag  has  much  to  say 294 

Little  Mistress  Sans-Merci 240 

Lofty  and  enduring  is  the  monument  I've  reared 377 

Lyce,  the  gods  have  heard  my  prayers,  as  gods  will  hear  the  dutiful  ....  368 

Lyman  and  Frederick  and  Jim,  one  day 175 

Maecenas,  I  propose  to  fly 394 

Maecenas,  thou  of  royalty's  descent 363 

Maecenas,  you  will  be  my  death, — though  friendly  you  profess  yourself        .     .  354 

Many  a  beauteous  flower  doth  spring 417 

Marcus  Varro  went  up  and  down 209 

Mary  had  a  little  lamb 466 

May  the  man  who  has  cruelly  murdered  his  sire 367 

Meynheer  Hans  Von  Der  Bloom  has  got 114 

Midnight  hour!  how  sweet  the  calm 523 

Misery  is  my  lot 430 

My  baby  slept — how  calm  his  rest 201 

My  books  are  on  their  shelves  again 196 

My  dolly  is  a  dreadful  care — 217 

My  father  bought  an  undershirt    . 459 

My  father  was  no  pessimist;  he  loved  the  things  of  earth — 62 

My  garden  aboundeth  in  pleasant  nooks 210 

My  grandsire,  years  and  years  ago 482 

My  harp  is  on  the  willow-tree 251 

My  lady  has  a  tea-gown 79 

My  little  child  comes  to  my  knee 485 


548  INDEX    TO    FIRST    LINES 

PAGE 

My  Shepherd  is  the  Lord  my  God — 40 

My  Uncle  Ephraim  was  a  man  who  did  not  live  in  vain 521 

Nigh  to  a  boom  that  was  newly  made 472 

No  more  your  needed  rest  at  night 386 

Not  to  lament  that  rival  flame 362 

Notably  fond  of  music,  I  dote  on  a  sweeter  tone 73 

Now  lithe  and  listen,  gentles  all 190 

Now  stands  Soracte  white  with  snow,  now  bend  the  laboring  trees     ....  370 

Now  was  Sir  Grover  passing  wroth 502 

O  cruel  fair         373 

O  fathers  all,  reflect  upon 464 

O  fountain  of  Bandusia! 353 

O  fountain  of  Bandusia!  more  glittering  than  glass 353 

O  gracious  jar, — my  friend,  my  twin 392 

O  hapless  day!     O  wretched  day! 53 

O  heart  of  mine!  lift  up  thine  eyes 413 

O  Lady  Fortune!  'tis  to  thee  I  call 391 

O  mother-my-love,  if  you'll  give  me  your  hand 260 

O  Mother  Venus,  quit,  I  pray 398 

O  Postumus,  my  Postumus,  the  years  are  gliding  past .375 

O  ship  of  state 356 

O  virgin,  tri-formed  goddess  fair 370 

Oh,  a  wonderful  horse  is  the  Fly-Away  Horse 303 

Oh,  come  with  me  to  the  arctic  seas 478 

Oh,  come  with  me  to  the  Happy  Isles 373 

Oh,  for  the  honest,  blithesome  times 508 

Oh,  had  I  lived  in  the  good  old  days 527 

Oh,  hand  me  down  my  spectacles 488 

Oh,  hand  me  down  my  spike-tail  coat 501 

Oh,  hush  thee,  little  Dear-my-Soul 339 

Oh,  listen,  little  Dear-My-Soul 258 

Oh,  them  days  on  Red  Hoss  Mountain,  when  the  skies  wuz  fair  'nd  blue     .     .  1 

Oh,  what  has  become  of  the  Mugwump-bird 495 

Of  all  the  gracious  gifts  of  Spring 117 

Of  all  the  opry-houses  then  obtaining  in  the  West 167 

Of  mornings,  bright  and  early 291 

Of  tarts  there  be  a  thousand  kinds 118 

Of  your  love  for  your  handmaid  you  need  feel  no  shame 360 

On  afternoons,  when  baby  boy  has  had  a  splendid  nap 269 

On  such  a  day  as  this  old  Notting  Wood 505 

On  such  a  day  as  this  the  Nazarene 505 

Once  a  fowler,  young  and  artless 413 

Once  came  Venus  to  me,  bringing 414 

Once — it  was  many  years  ago 529 

Once  on  a  time  a  friend  of  mine  prevailed  on  me  to  go 90 

Once  on  a  time  an  old  red  hen                          330 


INDEX    TO    FIRST    LINES  549 

PAGE 

One  asketh 410 

One  day  I  got  a  missive 212 

One  day  upon  a  topmost  shelf 207 

One  night  a  tiny  dewdrop  fell 337 

One  night  aside  the  fire  at  hum 437 

One  night  the  charming  Gerster  said 465 

"Only  an  editor's  wife,"  they  say 463 

Our  course  lay  up  a  smooth  canal 518 

Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven,  hallowed  be  Thy  name 167 

Out  of  the  house  where  the  slumberer  lay 340 

Out  of  the  woods  by  the  creek  cometh  a  calling  for  Peter 178 

Out  on  the  mountain  over  the  town 236 

Out  spake  Horatius  Flaherty, — a  Fenian  bold  was  he 447 

Out  yonder  in  the  moonlight,  where  in  God's  Acre  lies 137 

Ovarus  mine 390 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away 316 

Play  that  my  knee  was  a  calico  mare 297 

Play  that  you  are  mother  dear 307 

Pompey,  what  fortune  gives  you  back 393 

Prate,  ye  who  will,  of  so-called  charms  you  find  across  the  sea — 161 

Prudence  Mears  hath  an  old  blue  plate 139 

Saint  Jo,  Buchanan  County 75 

St.  Martin's  Lane  winds  up  the  hill 70 

See,  Thaliarch  mine,  how,  white  with  snow 369 

See,  what  a  wonderful  garden  is  here 303 

Seek  not,  Leuconoe,  to  know  how  long  you're  going  to  live  yet 372 

Shall  I  woo  the  one  or  other? 434 

Should  painter  attach  to  a  fair  human  head 374 

Shuffle-Shoon  and  Amber- Locks .  300 

Since  Chloe  is  so  monstrous  fair 381 

Sing,  Christmas  bells! 42 

Sir  Grover  quoth:  "  Let  each  one  here 503 

Sleep,  little  pigeon,  and  fold  your  wings — 225 

So,  so,  rock-a-by  so! 280 

Some  men  affect  a  liking 186 

Some  time  there  ben  a  lyttel  boy 226 

Speakin'  of  dorgs,  my  bench-legged  fyce 292 

Speaking  of  the  banks,  I  'm  bound  to  say 537 

Star  of  the  East,  that  long  ago 153 

Still  serve  me  in  my  age,  I  pray 409 

Stork,  I  am  justly  wroth 243 

Strange  that  the  city  thoroughfare 248 

Suppose,  my  dear,  that  you  were  I 140 

Sweet,  bide  with  me  and  let  my  love 431 

Sweet  Phyllis,  I  have  here  a  jar  of  old  and  precious  wine 379 

Sweetheart,  be  my  sweetheart       177 


550  INDEX    TO    FIRST    LINES 

PAGE 

"Sweetheart,  take  this,"  a  soldier  said 35 

Swing  high  and  swing  low 305 

Syn  that  you,  Chloe,  to  your  moder  sticken 382 

Tell  me,  Lydia,  tell  me  why 399 

Than  you,  O  valued  friend  of  mine 383 

Thar  showed  up  out 'n  Denver  in  the  spring  uv '81 37 

The  angel  host  that  sped  last  night 522 

The  big-eyed  baby,  just  across  the  way 499 

The  Blue  Horizon  wuz  a  mine  us  fellers  all  thought  well  uv 11 

The  brave  Shoshones  much  revere 438 

The  Cafe"  Molineau  is  where 84 

The  cruel  mother  of  the  Loves 387 

The  day  is  done;  and,  lo!  the  shades 401 

The  eastern  sky  is  streaked  with  red 333 

The  fickle  twin  Illyrian  gales    , 358 

The  fire  upon  the  hearth  is  low 242 

The  gingham  dog  and  the  calico  cat       282 

The  gods  let  slip  that  fiendish  grip 199 

The  golden  year  is  nearly  sped 487 

The  Greeks  had  genius, — 't  was  a  gift 366 

The  Hawthorne  children — seven  in  all — 223 

The  hero  of  affairs  of  love 357 

The  image  of  the  moon  at  night 409 

The  little  boom  they  said  was  vain 470 

The  little  French  doll  was  a  dear  little  doll 311 

The  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust 248 

The  mill  goes  toiling  slowly  around 218 

The  morning  sun  in  splendor  shone 445 

The  mountain  brook  sung  lonesomelike,  and  loitered  on  its  way 16 

The  Mugwump  sat  on  a  hickory  limb 495 

The  Northland  reared  his  hoary  head 152 

The  old  man  sits  inveiled  by  gloom   . 483 

The  other  night  as  in  my  bed 490 

The  Rock-a-By  Lady  from  Hushaby  street 268 

The  sage  of  Greystone,  so  they  say 445 

The  sky  is  dark  and  the  hills  are  white 230 

The  stars  are  twinkling  in  the  skies   .          335 

The  sun  climbs  up,  but  still  the  tyrant  Sleep 507 

The  sun  had  slipped  down 442 

The  sweet  shade  falls  athwart  her  face 525 

The  top  it  hummeth  a  sweet,  sweet  song 295 

The  twinkling  stars,  that  stud  the  skies 316 

The  western  breeze  is  springing  up,  the  ships  are  in  the  bay 396 

The  wind  comes  whispering  to  me  of  the  country  green  and  cool —    ....  160 

The  wold  is  drear  and  the  sedges  sere 483 

The  women-folk  are  like  to  books 40 

Ther  ben  a  knyghte,  Sir  Hoten  hight .511 


INDEX    TO    FIRST    LINES  551 

PAGE 

There  are  happenings  in  life  that  are  destined  to  rise 77 

There  are  no  days  like  the  good  old  days 124 

There  are  times  in  one's  life  which  one  cannot  forget 125 

There  are  two  phrases,  you  must  know 154 

There  are  two  stars  in  yonder  steeps 331 

There  burns  a  star  o'er  Bethlehem  town — 517 

There  fell  a  star  from  realms  above — 407 

There  is  a  certain  Yankee  phrase 187 

There— let  thy  hands  be  folded 145 

There  once  was  a  bird  that  lived  up  in  a  tree 315 

There,  there,  poor  dog,  my  faithful  friend 434 

There  was  a  certain  gentleman,  Ben  Apfelgarten  called 155 

There  was  a  prince  by  the  name  of  Tsing 320 

There  was  a  wonderful  bugaboo 535 

There  were  three  cavaliers,  all  handsome  and  true 341 

There  were  three  cavaliers  that  went  over  the  Rhine 433 

There  were  two  little  skeezucks  who  lived  in  the  isle 345 

There's  a  dear  little  home  in  Good-Children  street — 283 

There's  somethin'  in  your  homely  ways 492 

These  are  the  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw 533 

They  told  me  once  that  Pan  was  dead 171 

This  talk  about  the  journalists  that  run  the  East  is  bosh 25 

Though  care  and  strife 32 

Though  I  am  king,  I  have  no  throne 125 

Though  mighty  in  Love's  favor  still 372 

Three  authors  stood  upon  the  beach 506 

Three  comrades  on  the  German  Rhine 422 

Through  all  my  life  the  poor  shall  find 78 

Through  sleet  and  fogs  to  the  saline  bogs 51 

Through  those  golden  summer  days 96 

Tiddle-de-dumpty,  tiddle-de-dee— 327 

Time,  by  Julia's  face  enchanted 510 

'T  is  quite  the  thing  to  say  and  sing 80 

'T  is  spring!     The  boats  bound  to  the  sea 396 

'T  is  when  the  lark  goes  soaring 272 

'T  is  years,  soubrette,  since  last  we  met 59 

Tityrus,  all  in  the  shade  of  the  wide-spreading  beech-tree  reclining     ....  425 

To  bear  the  yoke  not  yet  your  love's  submissive  neck  is  bent 368 

To  Scythian  and  Cantabrian  plots 389 

To  the  willows  of  the  brookside 189 

To-day,  fair  Thisbe,  winsome  girl! 486 

To-day  I  strayed  in  Charing  Cross,  as  wretched  as  could  be 67 

'T  was  in  the  Crescent  City  not  long  ago  befell 158 

Two  dreams  came  down  to  earth  one  night 156 

'T  wuz  whin  O'Connor  shpoke  the  crowd 529 

Unto  a  withered  palm-tree  clinging 515 

Unto  his  valiant  aide-de-camp 441 


552  INDEX    TO    FIRST    LINES 

PAGE 

Up  in  the  attic  where  I  slept 306 

Up  yonder  in  Buena  Park 284 

Upon  a  mountain  height,  far  from  the  sea 34 

Upon  an  average,  twice  a  week 95 

Upon  the  hot  Egyptian  sands 480 

Upon  this  beautiful  expanse      . 491 

Us  two  wuz  boys  when  we  fell  out 24 

Used  to  think  that  luck  wuz  luck  and  nuthin'  else  but  luck— 206 

Venus,  dear  Cnidian-Paphian  queen! 395 

Way  up  at  the  top  of  a  big  stack  of  straw 163 

We  wake  up  and  make  up 497 

We  're  cleaning  up  the  boulevards 524 

What  conversazzhyonies  wuz  I  really  did  not  know 4 

What  dainty  boy  with  sweet  perfumes  bedewed       377 

What  end  the  gods  may  have  ordained  for  me 371 

What  gods  or  heroes,  whose  brave  deeds  none  can  dispute 400 

What  of  these  tidings,  Grover  dear 500 

What  perfumed,  posie-dizened  sirrah 376 

What  though  the  radiant  thoroughfare 74 

When  all  around  from  out  the  ground    .     .     . 328 

When  baby  wakes  of  mornings 311 

When  brother  Bill  and  I  were  boys 256 

"  When  Father  Time  swings  round  his  scythe 184 

When     am  in  New  York,  I  like  to  drop  around  at  night 147 

When     helped 'em  run  the  local  on  the  "St.  Jo  Gazette" 112 

When     remark  her  golden  hair 144 

When     was  a  boy  at  college 402 

When     was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89 71 

When     was  young  and  callow,  which  was  many  years  ago 129 

When  I  wuz  somewhat  younger 131 

When  in  the  halycon  days  of  eld,  I  was  a  little  tyke 52 

When  Jim  and  Bill  and  I  were  boys  a  many  years  ago 338 

When,  Lydia,  you  (once  fond  and  true 388 

When  our  babe  he  goeth  walking  in  his  garden 270 

When  praising  Telephus  you  sing 389 

When  the  busy  day  is  done 296 

When  the  numerous  distempers  to  which  all  flesh  is  heir 122 

When  the  world  is  fast  asleep 138 

When  the  writer  has  written  with  all  of  his  might 478 

When  thou  dost  eat  from  off  this  plate 313 

When,  to  despoil  my  native  France 432 

When  to  the  dreary  greenwood  gloam 174 

When  treason  boldly  stalked  the  land 473 

When  winter  nights  are  grewsome,  and  the  heavy,  yellow  fog 86 

When  you  were  mine,  in  auld  lang  syne 384 

Whenas  ye  plaisaunt  Aperille  shoures  have  washed  and  purged  awaye  ...  45 


INDEX   TO    FIRST    LINES  553 

PAGE 

Where  my  true  love  abideth 419 

Where  wail  the  waters  in  their  flow 55 

Whereas,  it  is  alleged,  to  wit 444 

Whether  in  Michigan  they  grew 528 

While  favored  by  thy  smiles  no  other  youth  in  amorous  teasing 385 

Who  I  am  I  shall  not  say 342 

Who  should  come  up  the  road  one  day 348 

Why  do  the  bells  of  Christmas  ring  ? 532 

Why  do  you  shun  me,  Chloe,  like  the  fawn 380 

Why,  Mistress  Chloe,  do  you  bother 382 

Why  should  I  pine  and  languish  so? 484 

Willie  and  Bess,  Georgie  and  May— 219 

With  big  tin  trumpet  and  little  red  drum 214 

With  not  a  faithful  lackey  nigh 468 

Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod  one  night 234 

Yonder  stands  the  hillside  ohapel 408 

You  ask  me,  friend 355 

You,  blatant  coward  that  you  are 397 

You  vain,  self-conscious  little  book 365 

You,  who  have  compassed  land  and  sea 357 

You  wore  the  blue  and  I  the  gray 455 

Young  Lochinvar  came  in  from  the  West 94 

Your  gran'ma,  in  her  youth,  was  quite 246 

You  're  not  so  big  as  you  were  then 238 


14  DAY  USE  IRY 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or     glow. 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall.        


••'••I 


IN 


— 


";.  ^  » 

'25.1960 


KEC'DtD     APR    l7i-8PM3ff 


r^.-  . 


REID     JUN  2  9  1982 


C'D  LD 


2201961 


'D  L 


3  0 


LD  21A-60m-4,'64 
(E4555slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


Tr^iisalSlii 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


